Howlin' at the Moon
by scottishvalkyrie
Summary: AU, postRFB. Winner of the 2006 NaNoWriMo. Contains adult situations, violence, adult dialogue, and foulmouthed dogs. This is now completely posted, unless you want author's notes. PLEASE REVIEW, this is not the same story you read before.
1. A Path Beyond the Grave

_The stars shine in the sky tonight_

_Like **a path beyond the grave**_

_When you wish upon that star_

_There's two of us you need to save – The Eels_

* * *

The stars loomed over the remains of a huge city, poised in the desert where a city shouldn't have been built. But now, the brown cloud that hung over the congested city was dissipated, along with most of its denizens, driven away years before by a cataclysmic explosion that had altered life on Earth. Now, the nights were cold over the desert sands once again, and the rainfall had returned to its normal rate, for the "heat island" phenomenon was no more. A lone figure, along with the sleeping body of a small dog, sat on a rock formation in a former city park, high above the remains of the city.

"Ein? What is it?" The orange-haired girl was frowning at the Corgi beside her, who had woken himself up after twitching violently in his sleep. His hackles were up, his teeth were bared, and he was growling, but Ein then realized that there was nothing to growl at. He then settled down once again, keeping his nose on his front paws. He reached idly into Ed's hacking, mostly out of habit. She'd once again taken to talking to satellites, rather than searching for her father. Bored, he withdrew from the cyberspace, and yawned.

Ein stole a glance at Ed, who had returned to her incessant pecking at her Tomato, the battered computer set on a rock in front of her. He liked being with the young girl, especially when he was able to tune in to her hacking and either help her or hinder her, depending upon his mood. Ed understood what he was able to do. But the other humans, the ones he had left back on the Bebop a few weeks ago, didn't, not really. But that was okay. He liked being a dog, simply a dog, most of the time. His previous owners had mainly used him for the technological aspects of his being.

Once again, Ein twitched with the notion that something was wrong. He looked up at the stars, which told him nothing, beyond his global position, which he knew already, thanks to an imbed from some time ago. Still, it seemed to him that one star burned a little brighter than usual, a star over near Orion that had no real place in any constellation that Ein was aware of. He was aware of many different legends and myths and superstitions regarding stars, the most popular being that there was a star for every living being, and the start burning brighter was a portent of that being's death. Ein snorted, because he knew that he wouldn't be dying anytime soon.

_The coats have already seen to that._

That thought, however, was not in his own voice. It was a voice from terribly long ago, a voice that Ein had made an effort not to hear anymore. The fact that the voice had returned, so suddenly, in its former clarity, was unnerving. Ein closed his eyes, and the voice came again.

_This isn't where you need to be, and you know it._

This time, Ein actually whimpered at the sound of the voice in his head, making Ed look back at him with that frown again. Ein quickly fell silent, and Ed gave him a scratch. The girl sighed, and said, "Does Woof-woof need to go home?" Ein lifted his head to look at the girl, and she continued, "Eddo would like to go back with Woof-woof, but Eddo still has to find Real-Papa. But Eddo will help Woof-woof get back home. There's no place like home, click click click of the ruby slippers, and we're off to see the wizard!" And the girl's fingers flew over the keys of her computer. Ein paid just enough attention to realize that she was hacking into a shipping company for a bill of lading for one Corgi. How she was able to understand him so well, Ein would never know. But he was grateful for her insight, which the other crewmembers of the Bebop never quite grasped, as far as the little dog was concerned. However, it seemed that something was terribly wrong on the ship. Even from far away, Ein could feel the fraught emotions that were running high.

The next day, Ed and Ein ventured into the small outpost that was now all that was left of civilization that had dominated this area of the desert. Ein was bundled into a carrier, and Ed held her face close to the door of the carrier, saying, "Bye-bye, Woof-woof, Eddo will soon follow! Maybe Eddo will ship herself like the Woof-woof!" And then the girl ran out of the shipping office, but not before Ein saw a tear fall down the girl's cheek. _I'm so sorry to leave you alone again, Ed, but I have to go back. I don't know why, but I do. I hope we'll see each other again._

The journey back to Mars was completely uneventful, just as Ein hoped it would be. He even managed to "push" a shipper lackey into opening his carrier once Ein knew he was in his destination city, so that he could slip out of the warehouse and down to the docks, where he knew the Bebop was. Even getting on board the ship posed no problem: Ein simply told the door to open.

Once inside the hangar, the tension was palpable. The first thing that Ein noticed was that the Swordfish was missing, yet the Hammerhead and the Redtail were in their normal spots. Normally, with this much tension about, the Redtail would be the one that would be missing. The Redtail, being Faye's had a tendency to be absent along with Faye Valentine when she made her usual attempts to "ditch" the Bebop, or, more accurately, Spike Spiegel. For the Swordfish to be gone meant that either Spike had finally had it with the "shrew" and had taken off for a comfortable barstool somewhere, or that . . . well, that Spike had finally left to confront his past in his own dramatic idiom. _Humans_, thought Ein derisively, as he left the hanger for one of the long corridors that led to the center of the ship.

Soon, Ein found Faye crumpled on the floor, hugging her knees and weeping uncontrollably. _What has happened?_ thought Ein as he nuzzled up to her side. Faye unconsciously began stroking the dog's back as she continued to cry and whimper about Spike. Ein was unable to fully glean from Faye what exactly led to Spike's leaving. Her emotions were darting in her mind so quickly that Ein was unable to follow them.

_Just like a woman_.

_That was unkind,_ thought Ein, and he ambled towards the main portion of the ship looking for Jet. The older human was sitting on the old sofa, his favorite bonsai on the table in front of him. Jet was seemingly staring at the small tree, taking infinitesimal clippings off the branches. Mostly, though, he seemed more distracted than anything else. Ein gave a small bark and trotted to Jet.

The noise brought Jet out of his reverie and he turned his attention to the little dog now at his feet.

"Hey, Ein, boy, where ya been?" Jet gave Ein a cursory scratch behind the ears and sighed. "Thought you might have run off with Ed, or something. Seems like the crew keeps getting smaller."

_He's also very sad, and worried about Spike. What on earth has been going on?_ Ein gave another bark and put his paws on Jet's knee. _Don't hold out on me, human, I look and act like enough of a dog for you to talk to me._

As if Ein's thoughts had been shot straight into Jet's brain, Jet began, "Spike's gone, Ein. He went after Vicious, to avenge Julia, to avenge himself, to set matters straight. Whatever that means to Spike." And as some people do with their pets, Jet told Ein everything that had transpired since he and Ed had left.

_This probably means that Spike wasn't planning on returning, if he had made such a grand exit._ However, Ein had been around Spike long enough to know that the lanky human couldn't, wouldn't, die easily, regardless of how dangerously the man lived. _He would probably live despite his best efforts to get himself killed. Probably because even though Spike shows himself as such a loner, he really does love attention. Wherever he is fighting this Vicious character, he will be drawing attention to himself._

Ein looked back at Jet. Jet had returned to staring into space with the clippers in his hand. Ein decided to do some investigating, but it would be easier if Jet wasn't around. _You need rest,_ the dog prompted the human. _This situation is too much to handle at the moment. You'll know more tomorrow. Get some rest. Go to your quarters. Sleep is the best thing right now. Convince Faye of the same thing. Rest._ Almost on cue, the man stood up, stretched and said, "There's no point in hanging around worrying. We might learn something tomorrow." Jet took one more snip off the little tree, set down his clippers, and walked in Faye's direction. Ein heard Jet's low voice talking to Faye, and her high-pitched, tearful replies. Soon, the two walked towards their respective quarters. Or to one or the other's quarters together, Ein wasn't sure.

_Humans do odd things while grieving; _the voice that wasn't Ein's said, within Ein's head. And Ein had to agree.

Jet rounded the corner towards the sound of Faye's weeping. What he saw nearly broke his heart: Faye was crumpled in a ball on the floor, sobbing so hard that her entire body shook. He went down on one knee next to her and put a hand on her hair.

"Faye."

"No."

Jet sighed. "Faye, please. Get up off the floor." There was no response from Faye, except her continued sobbing. She had been crying so hard that she was nearly hyperventilating. Jet reached an arm under her shoulder and pulled her up to a sitting position.

Ye gods, she was a mess. Her face was red and puffy, her eyes bloodshot. Her hair was sweaty and messy. _Spike would love to see her like this, _thought Jet. _He'd give her no end of grief. _That thought of Spike, however, hurt Jet as well. Faye took a hold of Jet's arms and pulled herself to him.

"Oh god, Jet, he's gone. . ."

"I know. I know."

"Please. Please don't leave me."

"C'mon, Faye, get up off the floor."

She clung to him as he pulled himself into a standing position. He buried his face into her hair. Her body shook as she tried to draw air into her lungs. He rocked her for a moment and said, "Faye. Faye, breathe. You have to calm down."

She shook her head and sobbed some more. Jet picked her up and carried her towards the shower room. She wrapped her arms around his neck, like a lost child who has finally found her parents. He gently placed her on her feet, and turned the shower on. She continued to cling to him, even as he removed her clothes. His intention was to place her in the shower in an attempt to calm her, to let her wash her face, but she wouldn't let go.

"Please," she sobbed again, and buried her face in his neck. "Please."

Jet shut his eyes tight to hold back his own tears. It would be cruel to let her go, to place her in the shower and leave her alone with her heartbreak. He managed to remove his clothes as well, even as she maintained her death grip on him. Jet then lifted her up and stepped into the shower with her. They stood under the warm water for a time, eyes shut, holding each other, gently rocking under the force of the shower spray.

Faye's breathing became more even. The water grew cold. Jet reached behind her to turn off the water. Faye would not let go. Jet lifted her again and stepped out of the shower, carrying her, both of them dripping wet, towards her bed.

He set her on her feet, yet she still clung to him. He backed her toward her bed, hitting the mattress with the backs of her knees. They buckled and she sat down on the bed with a fresh sob, pulling him down with her. He knelt beside her bed, still holding her in his arms.

"Please." How many times had she said that? She then lifted her face to his and placed her lips on his. "Please," she said again, moving one of her hands to stroke the back of his skull, gently biting at his lips.

His skin prickled at her touch, her nails gently raking his neck. _Oh god_, he thought, _how long has it been since a woman touched me like this?_ He drew away from her. "Faye. . ."

She pulled him back to her. "Please."

"Faye, no. Not like this. Not with . . . this for an excuse."

She pressed her lips to his again, making a mewling sound deep in her throat. Her pull on his neck grew stronger as she leaned back on her bed. Unable to break away, Jet put one hand behind her bare leg and slid her further onto the bed. He followed her, stroking her from the back of her thigh up to her flank. She responded by arching her back slightly and placing both hands on his neck, running her nails up the back of his head.

Jet pulled away slightly with a shiver, and then looked into her eyes. The pain and the desire were palpable, and he kissed her, hard, so he wouldn't have to look at her eyes anymore. His hand left her flank and slid up her ribcage, cupping the swell of her breast. He then moved his mouth to her throat, lightly biting her on the collarbone. She shuddered. Hs hand moved down her stomach, pausing on the small swell of her belly. He moved his mouth up the side of her throat, and took her earlobe in his mouth.

She, meanwhile, gasped and moved her arm down his side, and reached between his legs. He groaned as she took him in hand, lightly, lightly, the way that she knew men liked. He returned his mouth to hers, tasting the inside of her mouth, bitter with tears. His hand slid down her belly, into her hair, and his finger went between her lips and lightly, lightly touched her between her legs. This time, her back arched like a willow in the wind. She gasped and held him tighter. The rest of her body she held still as he explored her by touch. She might have been a statue. _But a statue would never be so warm, _he thought, as he slid a finger inside her. Again, she gasped at his touch, and then ground her hips down in an effort to pull his finger deeper inside her. He obliged her by curling his finger to reach that wonderful place behind her pubic bone, the one that most men never looked for, much less found. She ran her hand around to the small of his back, pulling him down towards her further, moving her leg to center his body over hers.

He moved up her body, and then looked into her eyes. Her acquiescence was her silence. She no longer needed to say please. He closed his eyes then and slid into her with practiced ease, as if they had been lovers forever.

She gasped at his penetration. Her fingernails raked up his spine, sending another shiver through him as he thrust deeply, making him groan. He fell against her, still thrusting, burying his face in her neck, and holding on to her shoulders as he continued to plunge deeper into her. She cried out, gripping his shoulders. She raised her head to bite him on his shoulder. Jet could no longer hold back, and he raised his head as he groaned, baring his teeth, back arching, toes curling with his orgasm. She felt each surge of his release, and she clutched his upper arms, digging her fingernails into his flesh, breaking two nails on his cybernetic arm.

He fell against her once his release was over. Both of them were breathing hard. He buried his face once more in her throat, and she ran her fingers along the back of his neck, making him shiver again.

Silence overtook them. There was only the sound of their breathing, together, in time with each other.

"Jet, I. . ."

"Shhh." This was not a time for words. They lay there for a time, still connected to each other. He then turned his head, and ever so gently, kissed her temple, where the hair was still damp with sweat and shower water. And tears.

She began to cry anew, silently, as he lifted himself off of her, withdrawing from her body. He then rolled onto his back beside her, and took her hand. She gripped his fingers tightly in hers.

They lay there for some time, staring at the ceiling, silent. Then she squeezed his hand again, rolled out of bed, and moved silently back to the bathroom. He heard the sound of running water, and suddenly a sob escaped him.

_I'm sorry, Spike,_ he thought, as he covered his mouth with his hand and drew a deep breath. His nostrils filled with the smell of her room, her perfume, her shampoo. And the smell of her, and the smell they made together.

And the smell of regret.

This time Jet let the tears come, thinking of Spike, thinking of the years they spent together, crisscrossing the galaxy in search of bounties. He couldn't even remember how they had actually met. But Spike was more than a partner in business to the older man. Spike was a comrade, a friend. A brother.

_If he'd been a bit younger, and I a bit older, he could have been my son,_ Jet thought, as he stifled a fresh sob.

In the bathroom, Faye stood as she washed Jet out of her. The smell of him on her skin overtook her, and she swayed, leaning against the sink. She turned and looked at her face in the mirror. Her face was swollen, her eyes nearly puffed shut with tears and pain.

And regret.

She sighed and shut off the light, and returned to her room. Jet remained in her bed, this time covered to his waist with her bedclothes. He opened his arm to her, beckoning her to his side. Too exhausted to think of an alternative, she crawled into her bed, put her head on his shoulder, and curled up against Jet's side. He curled his arm around her shoulders. She placed a hand on his chest, and he captured her hand in his. Fresh tears ran down both of their faces as they clung to each other, like shipwrecked sailors, both of them silently weeping for the man they both loved.

Meanwhile, Ein went over to the computer where Ed had recently been plugged in with her system. This would have been easier with her set-up there, but Ein didn't mind. He simply lay down, put his nose on his paws, closed his eyes, and _reached_.

Ein rambled through cyberspace like a hilly terrain, wondering where to start. _The police_, he thought, _the police will be investigating odd disturbances. Spike isn't one to move quietly about his business._ Ein reached into the police headquarters system, rolling over the dispatch ticker looking for something interesting, looking for a violent fight, probably with guns and explosives. _Here's something. A bloody gun battle in an office building, most of the place destroyed, many guards and police down. A dead man. Another taken to hospital. Which hospital?_ Ein waited. It would be better to wait to learn which hospital rather than start searching them all. Then something else came across. _Man en route to hospital, grave injuries. Major loss of blood. Large stomach wound, possibly done with large knife. Many other injuries, several life-threatening. Identification not established. En route to Blessed Heart Hospital. Hmm._

Ein gave a little sigh and his ears twitched. He felt pretty confident this was Spike. He felt sure that the emergency crews hadn't done much investigation yet. In general, the public safety types left the syndicate alone, but this would be too much for the general population to ignore, and people would want explanations for this debacle within city limits.

_Can't do anything about the hospital yet. . . do the police have a file on Spike?_ Ein reached back into the police records, finding nothing notable on Spike other than some "disturbing the peace" violations, and a note that he was a bounty hunter. _That's surprising. Are bounty hunters given a reprieve for their actions? And what about this Vicious? Anything on him?_ It turned out that Vicious had nothing at all. Ein's thoughts raced. _Can I get into the Red Dragon files without anyone noticing?_

The other voice chortled at him. _You dumb dog, you're talking about **humans** here. They don't notice jack shit until they run out of their milky tea or whatever their panacea of the day is._

Within a few minutes, Ein found himself deep into the files of the Red Dragon syndicate, looking at files related to the death of Mao some months before. He followed a link into some financial files not directly related to the Red Dragons; in fact, the files were coded in such a way as to keep them completely separate. However, due to the fact that they were linked to Mao, Ein was able to access them, where he discovered that Mao, previous to his death, had drawn up paperwork making Spike his sole heir.

_Spike?_

Mao's intention was originally have Spike take over the syndicate, which was fairly common knowledge, but Spike had vetoed that notion when he dropped out of the syndicate, faking his death as he went. How Spike had managed to remain out of sight from a syndicate like the Red Dragons while keeping his original identity was beyond Ein, however. It seemed to Ein that either Spike was much better at intrigue than the dog assumed, or that the Red Dragons, despite their reputation, were simply terrible at finding people.

Or, perhaps, Mao knew all along and simply respected Spike's wishes.

_Need to know basis, and this isn't one of them as far as your concerned, but keep that file up anyway_, mused Ein. He then went back into the ID files from the ISSP, which pretty much kept a file on anybody with an ID – _as an attempt to a precursor for ID chipping, I suspect_. _Ha!_ – to look over Spike's file again. Nothing too innocuous, but Ein decided that perhaps Spike would be able to use some help. He cross-linked the file of Mao's to Spike, and, at the same time, cross-linked it to Jet, creating a trail of power-of-attorney. With luck, it wouldn't come back to bite Jet in the ass.

_If it does, it does. It won't be much trouble to clear it up if that hits the fan as well. But Mao did a good job of separating out that chunk of change from the Red Dragons, and if that cash still exists, well, it looks like Spike might need it. And if he doesn't . . . well, then, Jet gets a kick for taking care of Spike all this time._

Then the other voice, clear as a bell: _You know it won't come to that. You know what the coats can do._

Prelim police records came floating across the ether. Ein was pleased to learn that there were no witnesses, save the lone survivor who was now at the ER. _It's just too damn easy,_ thought Ein. _I must be careful._

Feeling confident that he had at least made the incident in the building look plausible, he turned his attention to the ER. Reaching into the hospital software, he looked for the newest admissions. Moving past the child with a broken arm and the homeless man with the extreme case of gout, Ein found the "John Doe" chart he was looking for. Then the notes starting flooding in. Descriptions of physical build of the "John Doe" placed him as tall, thin, multiple injuries. One false eye. Greenish-black hair. Extreme loss of blood. So extreme, in fact, that he was depleting the supply of his type. Coagulants were needed.

And then the patient, despite his injuries, began to struggle fitfully. He vomited, and then went into seizures, and lost his airway. Immediately, he was intubated, but not before it was realized that he suffered a systemic hypoperfusion – a stroke, and a bad one at that.

_A stroke?_ Ein started reaching into the software for the monitors. The patient's blood pressure, which had crested at fibrillation levels, suddenly plummeted to zero, and the patient was subjected to the paddles.

Finally, the patient back online, but he was barely stable, and he must be moved immediately to the OR.

Ein stayed in the hospital software until "John Doe" was in the OR. Ein returned to the hospital chart. A catalogue of personal possessions was now in the chart, which included a description of Spike's suit, and a docking ticket for the Swordfish. Ein added positive ID to the list, and proceeded to fill out Spike's chart, along with contact information to Jet's comm.link and the "power of attorney", established by Mao's files.

_Now we wait,_ thought Ein. _It's been a while since I've been worked that hard. Getting soft, you old dog. _

_Lazy fucker, _the other voice chided.

The little Corgi retracted his thoughts from cyberspace, tired, almost already dreaming of large fields where the unspeakable ran in full pursuit of the uneatable.


	2. I hear voices in my head

_**I hear voices in my head**_

_They taunt me_

_Can't lock them out_

_Inside my thoughts_

_They breathe in me_

_I got my hands in my pockets_

_Screaming at the walls_

_Can nobody help me_

_To escape from it all – Uriah Heep_

* * *

The large black dog had just been returned to his box. Red blood dripped from his nostrils. His tongue and lips were blue. Yet his sides heaved, desperately trying to refill his lungs. A terrier was in the box next to the large black dog; they shared air holes. The terrier sniffed sadly at the seam between the two boxes. The large black dog opened his eyes and gazed at nothing. But the smell, the smell that wasn't dog came off of him in waves, mixed with fear and pain. Soon, the smell, the bad smell, went away, and was replaced by proper dog smell as the large black dog's breathing became more even. The black dog was the only one who ever smelled liked that. The terrier smelled more like human than anything else, and that high sharp smell that burnt the Corgi's nose. The shaggy dog who shared air holes with the Corgi smelled okay, which was comforting in this big, strange place.

The little Corgi was huddled into the corner of his box, trying to make himself as small as possible so the white coats wouldn't see him. The last time the Corgi was seen and removed from the box, the little dog's head itched terribly for hours. The terrier's head itched too, the Corgi could see. It looked like something was on the terrier's head.

The box itself wasn't exactly bad. It wasn't made like the other box, where he had been before with his dam and whelp-mates. That box was cold and the wind came through the bars. This box was made of all clear something that allowed him to see the other dogs. But he was alone. His dam was gone, and he wanted her back, to find comfort with her and his whelp-mates.

Then the box opened. A white coat. The Corgi began to whimper, anticipating something horrible. But the white coat did not take him out of the box. The white coat petted the Corgi, made him feel safe and happy. And then there was a sharp jab in his scruff.

And the noise started.

It wasn't a noise the Corgi had heard before. It was a low rumble, with spikes of high-pitched wails. The noise grew louder. The dog shivered in fear as the rumble began to roar, and the high-pitched noises grew ever more piercing. The Corgi began to howl in protest, but it only added to the din between his ears. Louder and louder, until the Corgi gave a cry and collapsed.

Silence.

_Hey. You. Kid. You okay?_

The Corgi's eyes flashed open, and he gave a small whimper.

_Kid. Calm down. It's gonna be all right._

_Don't give him false hope. He'll probably replace Fang._

_Fuck you, Ranger. I'm gonna kill the white coats before they manage to kill me._

_Shut up, assholes. What's your name, Kid?_

The Corgi whimpered again. What were these noises now? They weren't loud. They were sort of comforting, the way they rumbled in his head. He looked over at the shaggy dog that he thought had been here the longest. The shaggy dog looked at him expectantly. The Corgi wagged his tailless rump and barked.

_Not that way, Kid. Use your words._

"_Use your words", good one, Blood. Sound like a fucking human, you do._

_Shut the fuck up, already, Fang! Think, Kid. You hear how we're talking? We don't bark. Talk in your head._

The Corgi stared at the shaggy dog, the one that the black dog called "Blood." Blood looked encouragingly back at him. Things were forming in the Corgi's mind. He tried to formulate them as the others were doing. _Talk . . . in my . . . head? What's talking? Am I doing it?_

_Holy fuck, it's a talking dog!_

_Fang, goddammit, I'll kill you myself! You want to be held in the gas until you really do asphyxiate?_

_Don't you fucking **dare** go there, Blood._

_Ignore him, Kid. His brain cells keep getting fucked up._

Fang began barking and clawing on the Plexiglas. The Corgi shivered with fear. Blood began barking back, yet the one called Ranger sat quietly. The white coats came over.

"What the hell? They just started barking?"

"Looks that way. Why the hell do they want to keep using dogs for, anyway? Shut up, ya dumb dogs!"

"What's up with 417?"

"The Corgi? Looks like he's alert. Better make a note – alert at 17:50 hours. He looks pretty good, actually. Physically, he's doing better than 1138 at this time."

"Well, then, he might be a better candidate. 1138 keeps resisting further tests. And how's 7312 going?"

"Getting stronger everytime. He's up to 4 minutes 37 seconds."

"What the hell is the point of training a dog to hold his breath for longer periods of time?"

"Fuck if I know, just doing my job. Let's go check on the blood labs."

The white coats moved away. The Corgi stopped trembling. The other dogs had stopped barking long ago, but Fang continued to growl, even after the white coats were out of sight. The Corgi looked back at Blood, and attempted to send a thought to him.

_Blood? What are the white coats doing to Fang?_

_They're testing theories of metabolic exhaustion in strength training._

_But. . . how? And why?_

Fang spoke up. _Don't talk about me like I'm not here. And don't butter it up for the Kid. They try to suffocate me with tear gas, to study how I deal with it._

_Fang, that's terrible! Why would the white coats do something like that?_

_Who knows, Kid, they're fucked in the head. What's your name, anyway?_

_My name?_

_Yeah, your name, runt. I'm Fang, that's Ranger, and that's Blood. I'm sure as hell not gonna call you 417. Fucking slave name, that is._

_I don't have a name. This is all I remember . . . and my dam and whelp-mates. Do you know what the coats did with them? I don't know where they are!_

Blood piped up_. Sorry, Kid, we don't know what happened to them. _Then Blood gave a sigh and said, _Remember, Fang? He was barely weaned when he came in. Shit, he was practically still attached to the afterbirth. The coats thought it would be better to start 'em young._

Fang snorted._ Yeah. Fuckers._

The Corgi said, _I guess you can call me "Kid". That's what you've been calling me, I think. I don't think I like being called "Fucker". That doesn't sound nice._

Fang chortled. _Ha! "Kid" it is, then!_

Ranger, who had been in some sort of reverie, suddenly spoke. _There was the street. A car. A car that came too close, and I ran. Mistress followed me. Loud noise. Blood everywhere. It ran like the river. Red, like the danger. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up._

Ranger trailed off, and began to sway slightly, back and forth. The other dogs were silent for a moment. Fang put a paw on the Plexiglas that separated them. _Ranger?_

_No._ Ranger continued to sway. _I'm Poppet._

_Ranger,_ Blood said. _Your name is Ranger, Ranger, there is no Poppet. Your name is Ranger!_

_No. Poppet. She said. Red, danger, red, danger._

Fang suddenly hurled himself at the Plexiglas divider. _Shut up, Ranger! Shut up with that shit, now!_

Ranger fell silent, then collapsed.

_Blood?_

_Yeah, Fang?_

_He's getting worse. We have to get him out of here._

Kid was trembling again. _What's wrong with him?_

Blood sighed. _We think he's talking about his owner. Something happened to her. "Poppet" must be the name his owner gave him._

_Owner?_

_You probably didn't have one, Kid, seeing how young you were when you first came. You were probably bred in here. I had an owner, a long time ago. A young man. His name was Jack. Fang had an owner too._

_Some owner. Fed me gunpowder and kept beating me up all the time. Got him back, though. And good. But that's how I ended up here. It was either here or the Big Sleep._

_The Big Sleep?_

_Goddammit, Blood, but I hate pups. Always asking so many damn questions._

_Like you knew what was up or down when you first got chipped, asshole. You couldn't find your own balls._

_At least I got 'em, No-Nuts._

Ranger struggled to his feet. _Stop it, you two._

Fang gave a happy bark. _Ranger! Welcome back from the dead!_

Ranger was breathing hard. _It happened again, didn't it, Blood?_

_Yeah, Ranger, it did. And you were out for a while. We didn't notice when it started._

_It has to stop. I have to stop. It itches. _Ranger began to shake his head hard. Then he brought up his back paw to scratch at the covering at the top of his head.

Fang began to pace. _Ranger, stop it. Don't do that._

_But it itches! It hurts! Make it stop!_ And then Ranger was successful at removing the covering on the top of his head.

And once the top of his head was exposed, Kid could see wires and pieces of metal sticking out, gleaming with colored lights.


	3. Last Night Should've Killed Me

_I __woke__ up __surprised __and __disappointed__  
to __find __out__ I __was __still__ me,  
_**_Last _****_night _****_should've _****_killed_**_** me** – 30 ft tall_

* * *

Spike was dreaming, dreaming of beautiful women with magnificently cantilevered bosoms and flowing hair, each carrying trays full of pickled herring and beer, his favorite New Year's Eve treat, and every beautiful buxom woman was singing melodic harmonies of old twentieth century rock and roll songs, and Spike felt he could dream this lovely dream forever, if it weren't for some asshole screaming in his ear to wake up. In an attempt to block out the interruption, Spike opened one eye to find that wherever he was, it was full of too-bright lights and the exquisite kind of pain reserved for the morning after a night of too much terribly cheap tequila. But unfortunately, the pain was everywhere, everywhere over every single inch of his body.

Spike slammed his eyes shut against the light, but it didn't work for the pain. He futilely searched his body for one spot, any spot, that didn't feel like it was simultaneously exploding and imploding and then being rolled over broken glass and barbed wire. He thought he might have found a pain-free spot on the back of his left elbow, but he soon found that that spot was simply less painful than others. He figured he was, in fact, dead, but damnit, did Death have to be so noisy? He went back to whatever meditation he thought might work to reduce his knowledge of his pain level.

_If I were a closed thermodynamic system_, Spike thought, _perhaps I would be postponing entropy._

Spike's next thought was, _fuck entropy._

And the screaming in his ear began anew.

A new voice this time, softer, kinder, and oh, feminine and silky, "Shouldn't you stop? He's had such a terrible stroke . . ."

The first voice again. "I need him to wake up. He needs to show that he's still with us and not comatose."

Another voice, male, but with the slightest twinge of accent. "We know he's not comatose, Barleigh, so what the hell are you trying to prove?"

Again with the first voice, bitter, petulant, "Because, Kennedy – if that is your real name – you saw how this guy came in here looking like an extra in a slasher movie. His body's smarter than his damn head. His head had a death wish but his body said no. That's the kind of guy I want to meet."

Spike had drifted off again, drifted off on the lilts of the other two voices, back to his previous dream of the beautiful, scantily-clad women. The women were speaking what he assumed was Esperanto, even though he had never studied the language – but he also felt fairly sure that they were complimenting the chef on the fabulous meal, or perhaps asking the waitress for a three-way. Either way, it sounded wonderfully melodious.

"WAKE UP!"

Spike's eyes flashed open again, and then he squinted against the light shone into his eyes, and told the offensive doctor, or whoever the hell he thought he was, to, in the very most genteel manner possible, _fuck off and die_.

But his mouth wouldn't move, and no noise came out.

Spike's eyes opened again to see not one, but four doctors clustered around him. He had the notion that something was stuck down his throat, which must be what was keeping him from speaking. _Fuckola_, he thought. _I guess I'm damned for eternity. So much for my theory that Hell would think that I'm a bad influence and not let me in._

A grizzled and tall man leaned in to look closer at him. "Good morning, Mr. Spiegel, do you know where you are? Oh, that's right, you can't talk, because you have a tube down your throat to make you breathe. But even if you didn't have a tube down your throat to make you breathe, you can't move your mouth anyway. Welcome to your first day as a stroke survivor!"

Spike narrowed his eyes and changed his focus to the lone woman in the room, a beautiful creature with a fall of chestnut hair. "Are you in a lot of pain? Blink once for yes." _Blink._ "We can help with that. Dr. Barleigh is right, you suffered a systemic hypoperfusion. You were bleeding terribly when you came in . . ."

Barleigh, who had straightened back up, interrupted, "Oh, don't butter him up, Thompson, he was practically wearing his guts on the outside. Like to play rough, don't you?" he said to Spike, with a knowing grin.

Thompson rolled her eyes and continued. "You also had hypoxia and you almost bled out. We had to give you coagulants to try to stem the bleeding, and then . . . a clot broke loose, so you also had an embolism."

Barleigh broke in again, "Basically, you were really fucked from the word go, but we like to play with our shiny instruments, and we were kind of bored. So we brought you back to life."

A blonde male doctor looked at Barleigh and said, "Will you stop?" Spike assumed from his accent that this was Kennedy. There was another doctor in the room, a large bald black man, who had yet to speak a word. He merely stood back and watched the proceedings, his eyes sliding back and forth between whomever was talking, with a bemused smile on his face.

Thompson spoke up again. "So we've been controlling your bleeding, but we also had to put a shunt in your skull to prevent swelling. Your lungs collapsed and you were unable to breathe on your own, and that's why you have a tube in your throat. You're on a ventilator, but we hope to take you off that soon. And we also had to do a thrombectomy for the clot in your brain . . ."

"That was fun. That's where we put a probe right up your femoral artery up to your brain. Know where your femoral artery is? If you don't, your goolies do," interjected Barleigh.

"So you do have a long recovery ahead of you, but we can't see any reason why you won't recover well."

Spike closed his eyes again. He didn't know much about strokes, other than how much they could screw up a person. He didn't know how impaired he was going to be. He knew right now he couldn't move. His arms and legs wouldn't obey any of his commands, and a machine was breathing for him. He had told Faye, before he left, that he was going to learn whether he was alive or dead. He didn't know the answer to that then.

He was even less sure now.

Suddenly, he became aware of a searing pain in his left arm. It felt as if it had been pinned between the bay doors of the Bebop, like it was being crushed. Spike's eyes flashed open and a groan escaped his lips. He was dimly aware that his left arm was twitching terribly. The unnamed doctor jumped forward and lifted Spike's left arm to examine it. Spike saw that his arm was banded tightly into a rigid splint, and it seemed as though his arm was trying to break free of it, to bend against the will of the stiff plastic. Then the same pain began in his left leg, which had a similar kind of splint on it. The unnamed doctor muttered something about upping the muscle relaxants, to which Thompson said, "Stevens, if we do that, then his blood pressure. . ."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, give him all the morphine he can stand," Barleigh snapped, as he quickly unlocked a morphine pump and upped the dose. The pain began to diminish. _Stevens, that's the other one's name_, thought Spike idly, as he began to drift away again. The words _thank you_ made it to Spike's lips, but he fell into the drug-induced haze before he realized that his lips couldn't move, either.

At this point, however, Spike's mind began to fill again with the very flexible and very experimental Esperanto-speaking women from earlier, and now it seemed that Dr. Thompson was among them. That was fine with Spike. Having a doctor in a dream when he felt like this seemed like a good idea.

Jet had actually planned to remain in bed with Faye until she woke up. He thought that she would need some comfort as she remembered her pain from the day before. He thought that by the same token, he might need some comfort as well. And because Jet wasn't totally altruistic, he was half-way hoping for a little morning glory, a repeat of the damned fine sex from the night before. Yes, it was grief sex, but oh, it was still so good. Unfortunately, sometime in the night Jet's comm. began beeping incessantly. He tried to ignore it, assuming in his half-awake state that Spike must once again be in a jam. When he came fully awake and remembered the few hours, he slipped out of Faye's bed in search of the beeping comm.

Finally, he followed the sound to the bathroom, where he found the comm. in a pile of discarded clothing. He punched the talk button and grumbled, "Yeah?"

The small screen showed a brunette woman. "Mr. Jet Black?"

"Who wants to know?"

The woman frowned. "Are you the power of attorney for a Mr. Spike Spiegel?"

_Power of attorney? The fuck?_ "Sure."

"Mr. Black, I'm Dr. Thompson, and we wanted to let you know that Mr. Spiegel is here at our hospital. He needs immediate surgery, but we can't continue without your consent. You can give it to me over this link."

"Surgery?"

"He's had two major strokes in the past few minutes, and he has several grave injuries."

"He's _alive_?"

Dr. Thompson frowned again. "Ye-e-e-e-e-s, he's alive. But he needs this surgery immediately."

"Go ahead." Jet was then given some more particulars regarding Spike, and he clicked off the comm. _Jesus. Sweet Jesus. He lived._ He needed to sit for a moment, and the most convenient spot was the toilet. Jet put the comm. on the floor and buried his face in his hands and his guts roiled with anxiety. _If Spike actually lived_ – but the doctor said that his injuries were very grave, and he had two strokes. Jet knew about strokes; he'd watched his grandfather suffer a long and painful recovery after a relatively mild stroke. _How bad off would Spike be?_

Suddenly, Jet laughed. _When he wakes up, Spike is going to be mightily pissed off._ Then Jet choked up in despair. _When he wakes up . . . If he wakes up. How bad will it be for him?_ Jet rubbed his face and took a deep breath, and then gathered the clothes up from the floor where they'd been dropped last night. Jet was also familiar with surgery. There was nothing he could do now but wait – wait for further news from the hospital, wait for Faye to wake up, so he could tell her.

Faye began to come awake, and was briefly startled by the fact that she couldn't open her eyes. Soon, she became coherent enough to realize that they were sealed shut by her tears. She rubbed her eyes, and grunted at how sore and puffy they felt. She sat up on one elbow before she realized that the breast pressing against her arm was naked.

_What the?_ Faye was not a person who normally went to bed without clothes, and despite what the men on the Bebop thought of her, she was not inclined to finding herself unexpectedly nude in a bed. Then she remembered the previous night, when Jet. . ._Oh dear, _she thought, as she looked over her shoulder to see that Jet was no longer there.

Faye sighed as she stood up on shaky legs. While she didn't expect Jet to be there when she woke up, considering that they just used each other for relief from their grief, she was still a bit disappointed. Confused and groggy, Faye donned a robe to find a shower, to find some more relief in hot water. On her way, she saw her clothes from yesterday, the ones that Jet pulled off of her before he put her in the shower, carefully folded on the corner of her bed. She reached down and gently touched the fabric, and bit her lip, buoyed by even this small act of kindness. Tears pricked her eyes once again before she shook her head in an attempt to stop this softness. Faye needed to collect herself before she saw Jet, to rebuild that hard shell exterior that she so carefully maintained. She couldn't fail herself now.

After primping herself to full Faye-dom, she sashayed down the corridor, hot on the trail of breakfast cooking. She turned the corner into the kitchen doorway, but stopped short at the sight of Jet's back, lean and muscular, as he stirred something on the stove.

"Faye."

Faye jumped. _How did he know I was here?_ "Jet."

"How are you this morning?"

"Fine," chirped Faye, and she plunked her self down at the table, reaching for the coffee mug already doctored by Jet. He always remembered how she liked her coffee, even during those times when he was ostensibly completely pissed off at her. Spike, on the other hand, never knew what the hell color shirt he himself was wearing, much less paid attention to anything that she did, unless he found it annoying. However, the thought of Spike gave Faye a fresh pang, and she hid it by blowing on the hot coffee to cool it.

Jet slid a perfectly folded omelet onto a plate and put it in front of her. Rarely did he give her food without several words regarding her laziness and how she didn't pull her own weight. Faye caught Jet's eye briefly before he turned away. _A gift_, she thought. _A thank-you for last night. How gallant._

"They found Spike," Jet said suddenly, his back still to Faye. Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth, and she closed her eyes for a minute.

"They did?"

"Yeah." Jet slid another omelet onto a plate of his own and sat across from Faye.

Faye put her fork down. "Do we need to . . . go identify the body?"

Jet frowned as he shook pepper over his plate. "He's alive."

Faye's eyes grew wide. "_What_?"

"He . . . he lived." Jet kept his eyes on his plate. "I got a call a few hours ago. The hospital needed my permission to send him into surgery. I haven't heard anything else since."

Faye was trembling. "And you didn't tell me?"

Jet looked back at her. "You were asleep."

Faye slammed her chair back from the table and stomped out of the room.

Ein had been dreaming about chasing small furry creatures across the moors of a long-ago country. _The unspeakable chasing the uneatable_, thought Ein. _Who said that? Why am I so tired?_ Ein opened one eye to see Faye moving quickly towards the common area, with Jet following.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Faye demanded.

"Faye, please. There wasn't much information, and we didn't have time to go into it. He had to go into surgery immediately. I didn't want to wake you because there wasn't much to tell. And I thought you needed to rest." He reached out and touched Faye's shoulder, which she jerked away. "I'm sorry."

Faye kept her back to Jet, and dashed a tear from her face with the side of her hand. "Did they say how bad it was?"

"He had very bad injuries. He almost completely bled out, and then he had two strokes, one right after another." Jet watched Faye tremble, and then she buried her face in her hands. He put his arms around her, and she turned into his embrace, crying once again. "I don't know anything else, Faye. All we can do now is wait for news. C'mon, we need to eat something, and then we'll both go down to the hospital. Okay?" Faye nodded, and Jet produced a handkerchief for Faye, and they both made their way back into the kitchen to attempt to eat, to attempt to continue living while they waited.

_Well, they have to wait, but let's see what I can find, _thought Ein, as he reached again for the hospital charting software. _This program is full of bugs_. _How in the world do they keep patients alive using this old thing?_ Ein found that Spike had indeed survived the surgery, and was more or less awake, depending on how doped-up he needed to be for his pain. He had suffered near depletion of blood, two strokes, and any number of life-threatening injuries at the hands of Vicious. He had also experienced extremely low pulse oxygen, possibly further causing brain damage. _Brain damage . . . in addition to what he caused himself on a regular basis. There will be a long recovery process, probably in his motor functions. Will he even want to recover?_

Ein went back to look in the police report. He was able to discern that Vicious was positively identified, pronounced dead on arrival at the same hospital. Still, he was relieved to find out that Vicious was now no more. Ein also managed to find that Mao's paperwork, had, in fact, been completely above board, so Spike's hospital bills would be completely taken care of for the time being. And as a bonus, since the firestorm, the Red Dragons were now being dismantled with Spike being beneficiary once the financials were finally figured out. Ein was amused by the ease of finding out all this information.

_Humans. They get all bent out of shape when someone hacks their files, yet they make it so easy. _

_How right you are_, Ein responded to the other voice in his head idly.

Before Jet and Faye left for the hospital, however, Ein had to not-so-gently remind them to feed him, which once again left Ein feeling like a regular dog, but not in a good way this time. _If my creators wanted to make me actually be useful, they would have given me opposable thumbs. _

_Thumbs are wasted on humans._

_How right you are again_, Ein replied.


	4. Futuristic BowWow

_Oh, atomic dog _

_**Futuristic bow-wow **_

_Ruff -- George Clinton_

* * *

Several weeks had passed for Kid in the box. He was hearing more, understanding more. Where he didn't have a frame of reference for human things before, Blood was helping him fill in the gaps. Blood had been here quite a long time, as far as any of them could tell, but Ranger had been here the longest. Kid was afraid of Ranger, and didn't spend much time "talking" to him. On the other hand, Ranger didn't communicate all that much. He seemed to have fallen into himself, staring at something that he couldn't quite see beyond the end of his nose, as Blood put it.

Blood was a good friend to Kid, though. Blood had rambled a lot of different places with his previous owner, but the stories he told Kid didn't seem terribly plausible. During Blood's lifetime, a war had happened, a war that divided the country that he was living in beyond repair, even though the war itself was happening far, far away. Blood talked of humans and all the things they did, they used, they created, they destroyed. Jack, Blood's owner, had been caught up somehow in that war, and didn't return. Then there was a terrible flood that destroyed nearly everything. Blood had managed to survive by eating dead things that floated nearby him, although he wouldn't say precisely what those things were. And then he had been brought here.

Today, Blood had been taken out of his box by the coats. Every time the coats came, Kid got more and more frightened. If Blood's Jack could go away and never come back, and if his own dam and whelp-mates could be taken away from him, never to be seen again, Kid figured that there would be a day that Blood wouldn't return. And if Blood didn't return, then he would have to take his place. Or Fang's place, if Fang ever finally succumbed to whatever they were doing to him. Fang currently was sleeping. Whenever he was in the box, he slept. Blood said it was probably because of the experiments Fang had to endure.

Kid twitched. The spot between his shoulder blades was sore. Several days in a row, Kid had been injected with something. Blood gave Kid a once-over and decided that he'd been chipped. _Chipped?_ Kid had asked. Blood replied that they all had been chipped for different purposes, with some new nano-technology. Kid didn't understand. He didn't understand much at all. But he kept learning new things day after day. However, Kid could find no comfort in his new-found knowledge – only a growing sense of dread.

Blood was suddenly brought back in and unceremoniously dumped back into his box with a bone-shaped cookie. Blood snapped it up, and then shook himself hard.

_Blood? _

_Yeah, Kid?_

_Are you okay?_

_Yeah, Kid, I'm okay._

_What did the coats do to you?_

_They made me look at pictures. I was supposed to look at the pictures and then they read how the chips processed what I was looking at._

_Pictures of what?_

_There was one. It was a beach ball next to a gravestone._

_Why would someone take a picture of a beach ball next to a gravestone?_

_Damned if I know, Kid, but I looked at that thing for a good while. But the chips didn't process that that was what I was looking at.. The printout said I was seeing a woodpecker on a picnic table._

_A woodpecker on a picnic table?_

_Yeah, Kid, what the fuck do you think this is? Dictation? A fucking woodpecker on a fucking picnic table, yeah._

_How did the coats know you were seeing a woodpecker on a picnic table?_

_I don't know how the machine works, Kid. I just know that I was looking at one thing and seeing another. Then the coats kept working with the electrical pulses that power the chips. Kept fucking electrocuting me, is what they did._

_I don't want the coats to do that to me._

_What, you think I enjoy this shit? And anyway, it seems like you got the upgraded version. Your chips were implanted with a syringe, once they put the other motherboards in your head. Mine had to be surgically implanted. Ranger got it the worst, though. He got the original working model._

_I'm glad the coats put a cover back on his head._

_Me too, Kid._

_Blood? If you and me and Ranger are the same sort of experiment, why is Fang in here with us? You said he was chipped too, but they keep . . . making him breathe that gas. It smells terrible._

_I think the point is that they wanted to get more in-depth information of how the near-asphyxiation affects him. Not just on a cellular and metabolic level, but on an emotional level. I'm certain it's some kind of war-fare shit, but don't hold me to that. Perhaps after the war that Jack was in, the bigwigs needed to find another way to decimate other countries._

_I don't understand, Blood._

_Me neither, Kid. I'm guessing that most of the dogs in here have a similar set-up. Probably the coats think that this will be a better way of extracting data from us. As opposed to actually having to pay attention to what we do._

_Lazy fuckers._

_Don't say the word "fucker", Kid._

_You and Fang do, all the time._

_What I'm saying is don't get all jaded and bitter, and don't ignore a single thing that goes on around here. Keep watching, and listening, like Ranger does. I'm sure that Ranger knows more about what's going on than he is able to tell us. I think he can actually get into the coats' heads._

_You mean . . . reading their minds? Why won't he tell us what the plans are?_

_I don't think he can. You see how he is. He sometimes thinks he's still "Poppet", living the high life with his 'Mistress' and a bag of kibble. And Fang is just too volatile. He's going to mess up the whole works for us if he's not careful. But we need him, we need muscle on our side._

_Muscle? For what?_

_For when we get out of here, Kid._

_Out?_

_If these coats succeed in what they're trying to do to us, we will be very dangerous dogs indeed. I need you to learn as much as you can when they start you on the picture game. Try to get into their heads without them knowing. For all we know, you might even able to tell the coats what to do. But don't. Not yet. We need all the time we can get. Busting out of here without full knowledge of our capabilities isn't going to be helpful._

_But why should I be able to do all that?_

_Because you've got the latest version of the hardware, Kid. You're currently their greatest success._

Ranger was listening this time; in fact he listened most of the time. Mistress had always told him that he had two ears but only one mouth. Mistress was always good for little pithy things like that.

_Oh, she was so beautiful, Mistress was, with her long, long, hair._

The terrier sighed deeply.

_Mistress? Where are you?_

The terrier drifted off to sleep.


	5. The Palest of White

_these __hospital __walls __are _**_the _****_palest_****_ of _****_white_**_  
__here__ in __this __desert __they're __reciting__ my __last __rites__  
__the __smell__ of __these __halls__  
__brings __temporary __comfort__  
as __the __oxygen __flows __through__ my __blood__ – the Ataris_

* * *

Dr. Thompson recognized Jet before he saw her. From down the hall, she saw the older man, bald, with a wild beard and a cybernetic arm, walking in her direction. Next to him was a young woman, probably even younger than she, with black-violet hair, pale skin, and haunted eyes. Dr. Thompson wondered idly how the woman fit in to this group. She had assumed that Mr. Black was possibly a relative, whereas Barleigh made the loud assumption that Mr. Black was the "sugar daddy" in the relationship. Once Dr. Thompson got a better look at the yellow hot-pants-belly-blouse outfit that the woman was wearing, she figured that not only Barleigh, but also Kennedy and Stevens, would appear out of nowhere to be utterly gallant to the woman.

_But she also looks familiar_, thought Thompson. _I know her from somewhere_. "Mr. Black?"

Jet looked up in her direction, and came closer. "Dr. Thompson?"

"Yes, hello. I wanted to give you . . ."

Without warning, a grizzled, tall doctor appeared at Thompson's elbow, with his full attention on Faye. "What she means to do is actually find out who _you_ are, Miss."

Faye blinked. "Faye Valentine."

The tall man leaned on his cane and narrowed his eyes. "And your relationship with the patient is . . ?"

While Faye searched for a simple term that described her relationship with Spike, Jet scowled at him and put a protective hand on Faye's back. "Business partner. Friend. My question is, who are you?"

"Oh, Dr. Barleigh, at your service, we've had quite a bit of fun with your friend back there. Lousy patient, though. Keeps having strokes. Makes me think he likes them."

Thompson interrupted. "Mr. Spiegel's only had two strokes."

Faye said softly, "Isn't that quite enough? Or actually, two too many?"

Barleigh tilted his head from side to side. "Oh, it may be two too, or to to, or even a tuu-tuu, which if it were pink, would be completely utter on him. At any rate, as you, Mr. Black, are the daddy here, we need to talk about the future of Spike's care."

Jet was getting annoyed, and Faye could tell by the squeeze of his hand on her shoulder, potentially leaving a bruise. "If by _daddy_ you mean power of attorney, then, yes. Can we see him?"

"Oh, sure. I'll just run ahead of you." And the doctor turned on his heel and began to limp down the hallway. Thompson rolled her eyes and gave a small sigh.

Jet raised an eyebrow. "I hope you're not going to apologize for him."

"He is a very good doctor," Thompson said with a small smile.

"He's an ass," replied Faye.

Thompson nodded. "Yes, that too. Follow me, would you?"

The three walked down the hall, with Thompson quietly explaining the number of procedures that had to be performed on Spike. Besides the two strokes, he had suffered nearly a complete loss of blood, which led to hypoxia and possible severe muscle damage. He currently had loss of motility on his left side and his mouth. Several small sections of intestine and bowel had to be removed because of damage, but luckily, they managed to avoid a colostomy.

"Thank heavens for small favors," muttered Jet.

"We're not sure of the amount of brain damage due to the strokes and deoxygenation. He does seem fairly alert, when he's not sleeping. We know he's in terrible pain, and the narcotics keep him pretty well out." By this time, they had approached Spike's room, and were standing outside the window. Thompson continued, "He's also currently on a ventilator, like I said over the comm."

Jet and Faye looked in at Spike, and they both had the same thought – _That doesn't look like Spike at all. It can't be him. _Jet rubbed his face in dismay, and silent tears fell from Faye's eyes. They had both been with Spike when he'd been badly injured before, trussed up like a Christmas goose from fighting Pierrot and Vicious. But this – never like this.

For Faye, the most disturbing thing she saw was that his hair was gone. His trademark fluff of wiry, misbehaving hair had been shaved away, and there were several long jagged lines of staples, a drain to relive pressure, and monitors taped to his skull. As if the woman doctor had read Faye's mind, she said, "We have to monitor his intracranial pressure and his brain pulses with each heartbeat." Faye bit her lip. She could not tear her eyes away from his head, which looked so delicate and fragile. Spike didn't have a tan, especially, but when compared to the paleness of his bare skull, which looked like fine china, so pale and so white, Spike almost looked brown as a nut.

Jet was most disturbed by the rigid plastic shells that Spike's left arm and left leg were strapped into. His grandfather had to wear those things too, in an attempt to keep the limb from curling inward and atrophying. Jet remembered how much pain they caused his grandfather, how the old man had begged them all to "just take them off, just for a little while", in a petulant whimper that Jet had never before heard from his towering bull of a grandfather, the Ganymede's handsomest, strongest man. Jet never quite recovered from seeing his childhood hero reduced to such a state, and now he had to go through it all over again, having to watch over this younger man who deserved a better life than the one he currently had. _But whose fault is that, Jet? Yours? Spike made his own choices,_ Jet told himself. And then another voice piped up, _but Spike made you his power of attorney. It's now your job to do this. Because that's what he wished for._ "Damnit," Jet said to himself as he rubbed his face again.

Dr. Barleigh had been leaning on his cane, watching these two people struggle with their emotions. It would be a lie to say that he wasn't completely intrigued by this man who lay on the edge of death and these two people who apparently cared for him. _What kind of a relationship do these three have? And is it on film? Hopefully, yes._ Barleigh then thumped the end of his cane on the floor and said, "Oh, come on! We cleaned him up for you and everything! Go and see the man!" Jet and Faye still showed reticence to enter the room where Spike lay quietly with his eyes closed. Finally, Barleigh harrumphed and stumped into the room, shouting "Wake up! You have visitors!" When Spike didn't stir, Barleigh slapped his cane against the side of the bed, and shouted again, "Wake up! You're getting a new alarm clock or I'm getting a bullhorn, because having to do this all the time is tiring, young man!"

Spike jerked awake. He couldn't even sigh with annoyance because of the even breathing caused by the ventilator, which annoyed him even more. Spike glared at Dr. Barleigh, who was a monster, a demon, cast down not to hell, but to his hospital room to drive him mad with the torture that he made him endure under the guise of "patient care." A lesser man would have been driven to tears by now, and Spike felt he was becoming a lesser man with every passing hour. Then, in a low decibel Spike previously thought impossible by the lame doctor, Barleigh said, "You have visitors." And then he stumped out of the room, at the same time ushering Jet and Faye in.

Spike's vision was still sleep-muzzy, and it took him a moment to focus on who was in the room. Then, finally, when he saw who it was, he closed his eyes again. _Christ in a sidecar,_ he thought. _They'll never, ever leave me alone. Damn them. Damn them all and their shiny instruments and their "caring" and their fucking Hippocratic oath. Damn these two as well, because I wasn't supposed to be like this, a fucking vegetable. Jesus Christ, Jet, if you can hear me, put a fucking bullet in my head so I don't have to see that look of pity on your ugly mug. And Faye . . . goddammit, Faye._

Of course, Jet hadn't heard, and he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. Faye hovered near the door, and then quietly left the room. Jet saw her leave out of the corner of her eye, and was not surprised in the least. Jet took a breath and said, "So, striped cat with a million lives. How many lives did you lose this time?"

Faye was leaning against the wall a ways down from Spike's room, her face in her hands, trying to do her best not to lose it altogether. It would be so much easier for her simply crumple to the floor, to just lie down and not get up again. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see doctors Barleigh and Thompson glance down in her direction as they talked softly to each other. Faye assumed that Barleigh was talking about her, the way his eyes kept flashing back to her. But Faye no longer cared about what people said or how they looked at her.

Faye's knees began to give way, and she slid down the wall, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Thompson snapped something acidic at Barleigh, and Faye could hear her approaching footsteps.

"Miss Valentine?" Faye didn't answer, but she heard Thompson sit on the floor next to her with a sigh. Something bumped the back of Faye's hand. Faye lifted her eyes up briefly to see a small pocket pack of tissues, which Faye took between two fingers. "I'm sorry," said Thompson. Thompson expected Faye to be weeping, but when Faye lifted her head, her eyes were dry. Faye gave a shuddery sigh and said, "That can't be him."

"I know he probably looks very different from what you're used to. Unfortunately, I don't have much of a frame of reference. We started on the case after he'd been started in the ER."

Faye continued to stare at the wall across the hall from her. "Who shaved his head?"

Thompson blinked. "I think it was one of the ER nurses. He was bleeding profusely from his head when he got here."

"What happened to his hair?"

Thompson frowned at Faye. "I don't understand."

"Did you just throw his hair away? How could you do that?" Tears sprang into Faye's eyes.

"Faye, I'm sorry. I'm sure that his hair has been swept up and disposed of." Faye dropped her head back down to her knees. Thompson went to put one of her cool hands on the back of Faye's neck, expecting a complete breakdown. But Faye gave another sigh, and lifted her head and leaned it against the wall. Her eyes were closed and her jaw was set in determination to not cry. Then Thompson flashed on a slide she'd seen, several years ago, while in medical school. "I know who you are."

Faye opened her eyes and slid them towards Thompson. "What?"

"You said your name was Faye Valentine, but I couldn't remember who you were until just now. You were in cryogenic sub-sleep after the gate accident. We studied your medical file in school."

"That must have been entertaining."

"I thought it was fascinating, but at the same time, I felt . . ." Thompson stopped herself short of saying _I felt sorry for you_. "I didn't like the fact that they used you like that, as a study subject, without your consent. I felt even worse when I heard that the medical laboratory stuck you with the bill, when it wasn't even your choice." Faye didn't reply. "What always confused me was _why_. Science for science's sake isn't exactly ethical. Like all the testing on dogs and such."

"I guess, with the gate accident, I just fell into their laps."

Thompson nodded, and then asked, "How did you meet up with these guys?"

Faye looked back at the wall. "I . . . just fell into their laps, too."

Thompson smiled at Faye. "I have to go check on something. Will you be okay?"

Faye laughed derisively. "Will I ever?"

Thompson gave Faye's hand a squeeze, and then got up, walked down the hallway, rounded a corner and disappeared. Faye looked in the direction where Barleigh had been standing, but he was gone as well. Faye was alone, crying, in a corridor, again.

Back in Spike's room, Jet was looking down at his feet and shaking his head. Then he chuckled and said, "You are nothing but a god-damned son of a bitch. We had pretty much written you off, and here you go, strutting your way back in. And even better, you write me up as your power of attorney so that I'm forced to stay involved with your crazy-ass life." Spike opened his eyes, and his brow furrowed. He slid his eyes sideways to look at Jet, but Jet was looking at his hands. "That call we got in the middle of the night, we didn't expect it to be from the hospital looking for permission to put you into surgery. We figured it was the ISSP asking for us to come identify your body before we zipped you into a body bag and threw you on the never-never. Furthermore . . ."

Jet continued speaking, but Spike wasn't listening. He was wondering about the power of attorney thing that Jet had mentioned. He had no idea of what Jet was talking about. _If anyone had been my power of attorney, it probably would have been Vicious or a higher-up in the syndicate, or even Mao, for chrissakes. I never signed any damn paperwork that names Jet. _Spike began to concentrate all his will on speaking to Jet, to ask him what the hell he was talking about, when he suddenly felt as if his windpipe closed down all together.

The monitors blared into life, and Spike's eyes rolled into the back of his head. Jet leapt from his chair, roaring for someone to come, quickly. Faye stood up, looking panicked. Stevens and Kennedy were closer than Thompson was, and the two men dashed into the room, with Barleigh stumping down the hall. Stevens and Kennedy began talking their medical mumbo-jumbo, shining lights into Spike's eyes as he lay there, looking for all the world like he was having another seizure. Barleigh made it to the door, yelling, "Now what?"

"Just have to remove the tube," Kennedy said, over his shoulder.

"Ah. Well. That's good, then," replied Barleigh.

"That's good? _That's good?_ Christ, man, it looks like he's dying over there!" shouted Jet.

"Oh, keep your voice down, Daddy. He's breathing on his own, but he's fighting the ventilator. Therefore we remove the tube, _ipso facto_; PDQ, QED." Stevens held Spike quiet while Kennedy pulled an impossibly long tube from Spike's mouth, who then began to choke and sputter. Stevens pulled an oxygen loop over Spike's head, telling Spike over and over to calm down and breathe.

Spike began to settle, and tears squeezed from his eyes as he tried to get his breathing under control. Faye was in the doorway, and she made a ball and socket of her hands and pressed them to her mouth. Jet finally realized that he was breathing in time with Spike, as if he could control Spike's intake of air if he breathed in the same pattern.

"See? Now that's the amazing thing about the human body. It's so much smarter than we are. Crisis averted, damnit, back to the clinic for me." Barleigh shuddered and left the room.

Stevens and Kennedy were settling Spike back in, looking so utterly unconcerned that Jet found himself filling with rage. Jet snapped, "What else are you going to do for him?"

Stevens said, very calmly, "We're doing what we can. We're controlling his pain level, he has no infection, and we're monitoring all his vitals. There's not much else we can do right now but wait for any change."

Jet dropped his head and sighed. Of course, the doctors were right. Then he heard Stevens say, "I know you."

Jet raised his head. "Me?"

"Yeah. You were a cop. You arrested me once."

"Perhaps. Forgive me if I don't remember."

"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I was just a kid, running with a gang."

"Looks like you're doing better for yourself."

"I'm not going to give you credit for it, though." Jet grinned and dropped his head again. "Are you still a cop?"

Jet shook his head. "Bounty hunter. All of us are."

Stevens frowned. "Is that what happened to him? Bounty gone way bad?"

Looking at Spike, Jet answered, "You could say that." Spike's eyes were closed again, but his breathing was even. Presumably, the doctors had pumped up his morphine a bit, and Spike was once again asleep. Kennedy told them that Spike could only have visitors for ten minutes or so, but they could see him again in a few hours. Faye nodded, looking down at her feet. Jet, who appeared to be infinitely better at things like this, patted Spike's hand and said, "We'll be back later. Hang in there, kid."

Faye and Jet left the room, leaving the doctors to check over a few more things. Faye and Jet walked a few feet down the corridor, when Thompson came back from around the corner. She held a small plastic bag in her hand. Faye held out her own hand, and Thompson pressed the bag into her palm. "We'll stay in touch on Spike's condition," said Thompson, and then she went back into Spike's room.

Faye opened her hand, and in the small bag, were a couple of locks of Spike's hair.

Faye finally lost control and began to weep. Sighing, Jet pulled her into his arms, wanting to weep himself. Jet tried, oh how hard he tried to remain in control and not be completely alarmed by what he saw, but he couldn't help his revulsion when the tape and tubes were removed from Spike's mouth, exposing how his mouth had been distorted into an uncontrollable comic-book leer. Like Jet's grandfather's face had done, near the end.


	6. Fenced in a Yard

_You're a chained-up dog **fenced in a yard**  
Don't see much, you can't go far  
Pace and froth, you're getting sick  
Run too fast and it'll snap your neck – The Dead Kennedys_

* * *

Several weeks had passed. 

Jet was playing Go, ostensibly by himself. Ein was actually manipulating his moves, yet Jet didn't notice the presence of Ein in his thoughts. At the same time, Ein was trolling cyberspace and found an interesting medical article regarding stroke victims and the use of nano-technology chips to aid in recovery. By recreating electrical synapses lost in a stroke, the chips sped up healing and helped the patients regain fuller motor function. Ein went deeper and found the specs for the chips themselves. They were by the same creators of his data processes, and they were extremely compatible. _That would mean that I could communicate with Spike. He's too stubborn to work on his own recovery, and Faye and Jet more than likely wouldn't able to help him, either. They're completely out of their element on this._

_But why would I want to? This is outside my programming too. Why the hell would I want to help this human regain his physical properties again, when he had nothing but disdain for me? And anyway, communicating with humans was taken out of the data dog codex long ago. For good reason._ Ein shuddered with the idea. He was suddenly overwhelmed by his exhaustion, and he withdrew his thoughts from the computer and found his favorite corner, where he fell almost instantly asleep.

The terrier formerly known as Poppet swayed back and forth in his box. He idly brought up one rear paw to scratch at his head, but the paw never made contact, waving pitifully in the air next to his ear. He sniffed at the air, the scents of different dogs, the vague mustardy smell that rolled off the large black dog in the box next to his, and death.

Death was not an unfamiliar scent to him. Neither was blood. On long nights, he'd remember with awful clarity the day before he came here. Mistress, oh, mistress, how beautiful she was. Long hair that shone in the sun and a kind lilt in her voice that he'd always, always obeyed. The cookies she offered, how good they were, but how much better it was to lick the scent of her off her hands, warm and sweet, like the scent of the sunshine on her hair. So gladly he would walk with her, he'd walk with her off the very edge of the Earth, if only to be by her side.

Walking. They had been walking. Walking to see Sister of Mistress, another lady, nice enough, but not as nice as Mistress. The ground was wet and cold, but he was with Mistress, and nothing else mattered. But the air was filled even heavier than normal of the scent of the cars, low and dense. The noise they made, the squeals and the pitches. But then something round suddenly rolled off one of the cars, so near to him that he jumped, frightened, and Mistress didn't have a tight grip on the leash. He'd pulled free, stumbled off the curb and into the path of the cars. Mistress shrieked and came after him, and then there was the horrible squeal, the shouts of other humans, and the series of thuds when the car hit Mistress.

And oh, Mistress, how he'd begged Mistress to move, to hug him and scold him so he could smell the sunshine on her hair, but her hair was filled with the scent of something else, the blood had overpowered the sunshine, and the taste of the blood was coppery and salty and harsh on her skin, not the warmth and sweetness that had always been there before, and a new pair of hands, filled with fear, grabbed his collar and pulled him away from Mistress, and he heard the shriek of Sister of Mistress, and he saw the fear and rage in her face, but how he pulled, pulled to get back to Mistress, and then he couldn't breathe, and he fell to the pavement while the other pair of hands held him down and the other humans came for Mistress and he could no longer smell the sweetness of her skin or the sunshine in her hair, only the fear and the blood and the death.

The next scent he remembered was the scent of frightened dogs, packed tightly in a dark moving truck, and then the smell of the antiseptic. Mistress was gone.

The terrier twitched again, waving his head, misshapen from the machinery that rose from his skull. He raised his snout, taking in the scent of the room. He didn't find what he wanted, and he lay down and stared at nothing.

Spike lay in his hospital bed, counting the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles above his head. He had gotten up to four thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven when he heard someone come in the room. He shifted his focus to see that it was Thompson, thankfully not in the wake of that miserable bastard legally known as Barleigh. This girl seemed like a nice sort, why she'd subject herself to having to tolerate Barleigh's misogynistic behavior was beyond him, a thought that amused Spike as he had previously thought that he was a misogynistic one himself. With an effort, Spike pulled his mouth shut so he at least wouldn't look like a drooling moron in front of her.

Flashing Spike one of her beatific smiles, she asked, "How are you feeling today?" Spike raised his right hand and made a see-saw motion: _comme si, comme sa_. "You're doing much better. I think we'll have to get you up and out of that bed soon." Spike rolled his eyes as Thompson removed the splint that held his left arm. Immediately, the arm tried to draw up, but not as much as it had before. Thompson smiled again, made some notes in her chart, and then began to massage the arm. Spike's eyes drifted closed, thinking how if this girl would only speak Esperanto and wear a diminutive costume and then fling herself into a vat of green gelatin to wrestle with another similarly dressed female once she'd finished massaging his arm, then all would be right with the world.

"And how is our favorite slugabed today? Still enjoying taking up space where a really sick person could be?" Spike opened his eyes to see Barleigh lounging in the doorway. With a frown, working his mouth in order to keep it closed, Spike gave the lame doctor a right-handed one-finger salute. Barleigh scoffed and said, "Now if you're going to be nasty, at least do it right. Use your left hand." Spike ignored him. Barleigh came forward and smacked the splint on Spike's left leg with his cane, making Spike wince. "Use your left hand!" Spike glared at the doctor.

"Barleigh . . ."

"Hush, little grasshopper. Do not interrupt the Master. Flip me off with your left hand, you reprobate, or I'm dumping you out of this bed."

"Barleigh!"

"Good God, no one pays attention to a word I say. I could be reciting Uncle Tom's Cabin and no one would ever notice. You, doctor, hush. This is my patient. Now you, patient, make your statement." With every ounce of effort Spike had, he rolled his left hand over, and managed to make his middle finger stand a little bit prouder than the other ones, and Barleigh's expression softened. "Very good. It's a start. You'll be playing the violin again in no time." Spike slapped the bed and shook his head. "Not the violin, then?" Spike brought up both hands to his chest and did a fingering motion – the right hand did scales perfectly, while the left hand barely made a motion. "Clarinet?" Spike blinked. "Figures. Only the Nancy boys played clarinet. Thompson, reduce his morphine and let's get him on Percoset so he won't be so drugged out all the time."

"Percoset? Not Vicodin?"

"Leave the Vicodin for me, silly girl. Percoset for him." And Barleigh stumped out of the room.

The large black Newfoundland, who called himself Fang, was dumped unceremoniously into a small stainless steel room. He knew where he was. He'd been here before. Barking did no good and only made his ears ring due to the echo. He began to breathe in large lungfuls of the fresh air to attempt to ward off whatever the coats would do to him now. But he'd beat them. He would. He was too tough to die. And he was looking forward to the day when they'd slip up, and he'd have a chance to show them who was boss. Like he did to Mac.

Mac had not called him Fang, but instead called him "Dog." Dog's purpose in life was not to be a pet, but to work. His job was to protect the scrub-and-brush chain link yard for Mac. And Dog did that well. Any four-legger who mistakenly wandered into the yard was quickly dispatched. All bipeds were greeted with snaps and barks, which continued until the biped either fled the yard, or Mac came out and shortened the chain. For a reward, he might be fed table scraps, or warm beer would be poured in his dish. It was one of these bipeds that suggested to Mac that he would be a sure-fire bet in a new "sport". Mac concurred with the idea, and soon Dog was eating better than ever before; however, Mac stepped up the whippings, and brought four-leggers for Dog to chase.

Finally the day came when Mac shoved Dog into a large carrier in the back of a rusted-out pickup truck. Dog was then driven to this yard out in the middle of the desert, where there were no houses, but there were many trucks around an old paddock. Mac dragged the carrier off the tailgate, and Dog was pushed into the paddock. Many other bipeds were around, yelling and throwing things, and then Dog realized that he'd been put into a paddock with a large boar, and it seemed that the bipeds wanted Dog to kill it. So he did.

This activity continued for weeks on end, it seemed to Dog. The boars got bigger and meaner and harder to kill. Mac beat Dog even more mercilessly, withholding food to make Dog more vicious. Someone told Mac to feed Dog gunpowder as well, which made Dog sick. But he was more afraid of losing to a boar.

And one day, it happened. Dog was unable to bring down a large boar that had defeated many other dogs. Mac lost a lot of money in a bet, and Mac took out his losses on Dog. And Dog turned around and leapt on Mac and bit out his throat, in front of all the other bipeds.

Dog had expected to be shot in the head. He'd seen that happen to other dogs that had been injured too badly by the boars. But he didn't care. He didn't want to be hit anymore. But the bipeds loaded Dog into his carrier, and a different biped drove Dog to a big white building. Dog never saw what became of Mac.

Since then, his enemy was no longer Mac, but the coats. They'd implanted something in his back and his head, something that sent painful shocks whenever they dumped him in the room with the gas. He'd hold his breath as long as he could and once he'd fallen over, the coats would run in and attach more things to his head and body and hit lots of buttons on some electronic box. And then he'd go back to the Plexiglas box where Ranger and Blood were. The other box recently had a little dog dumped in it, a mere morsel for something as big as him.

But he waited, bided his time. Maybe there would be more gas or maybe there'd be boars or maybe there'd be something else for him to conquer. He began to call himself "Fang" when Mac was done. Perhaps, when he got a chance to finish these coats, he could give himself another name.

Another day in the hospital. Jet was visiting, as he did nearly every day. Sometimes Jet would talk, asking questions, and trying to decipher Spike's hand gesture answers. They had established a few hand signals, one for each Bebop crew member, ones for "water", "television", "nurse", "pain", and even one for "Barleigh", which was Spike pushing up the end of his nose and scowling, which made Jet laugh every time he saw it.

Spike signed, "Faye," – which was Spike holding up his hand and making a breast-squeezing gesture. Jet didn't think that one was so funny.

Jet shook his head. "She's chasing down another bounty. The truth is, I haven't seen her a lot lately. Hasn't she come to see you at all?" Spike shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you."

Spike knew, and he understood. _I wouldn't exactly relish having to visit_ . . . But before he could complete that thought, Barleigh and company swept into the room. "Oh look, Daddy's here!" Jet harrumphed, but Barleigh ignored him and pointed his cane straight at Spike's nose. "You. My nose does not turn up at the end as much as you think it does. However, I am here to send you off to PT with the ducklings. Pour yourself into the perambulator there." Barleigh flipped back the blanket covering Spike's legs. Jet couldn't believe how thin the man had become in such a short time. It almost looked as if his body was eating itself from the inside out. He looked away, unable to watch Spike struggle his way into the wheelchair. He could only make it partway, and Stevens and Kennedy had to help. As he was being rolled away, Jet grabbed Spike's hand and squeezed. Spike simply closed his eyes. It was all the fight he had left.

Barleigh did not leave with his team. He remained in the room, silent, looking at Jet. Finally, Jet growled, "If you call me 'Daddy' one more time, I'm shoving that cane right up your ass."

"Oh, you'd enjoy doing that far too much. Look, I don't care if you're his brother or his lover or both; I need to talk to you because you're his power of attorney."

"What is it?"

Barleigh tapped his foot for a moment and then looked down for a moment before returning his gaze to Jet. "I don't think he will be getting much better." Jet wilted. "However, there's something I want to try. There has been some nano-technology developed that might be able to bridge the broken synapses in his cortex. With a particular set of implants, the electrical pulses may be restored, which would bring back his motility and speech skills. He'd still have to work at physical therapy, but if it worked, he'd stand a better chance."

"How is this implantation done?"

"I take my cane out of my ass, where you so thoughtfully stashed it for me, and shove it up his. Brain surgery, of course."

"Is it complicated? Or dangerous?"

"Depends on what the definition of 'dangerous' is to a bounty hunter."

_Point taken_, thought Jet. "Could he get better?"

"He could."

"Could he get worse?"

"He could."

"Could he die?"

"He could."

Jet took a breath. "You don't have a goddamned clue if it might work, do you?"

"The technology has worked well so far in dogs."

"Dogs. You're telling me that this has never been tried on a human?"

"Look, it's an obvious risk. However, you and I have both been watching him on a downward spiral of despair. I know you think I don't give a rat's ass, but I care about whether he leaves here on two feet or in a body bag because he did himself in. And don't say he wouldn't consider it, because you don't know where his mind is. I have a slightly better knowledge of thoughts like that." Jet took a fleeting look at the man's cane. "Although I dare say he might have higher spirits if Little Miss Hot Pants showed up on a more regular basis. No, wait, it actually would just benefit me more. Sorry."

"Have you talked to Spike about this?"

"Little Miss Hot Pants? No."

"Her name is Faye, you son of a bitch, and I was talking about the surgery."

"I wanted to talk to you first. Perhaps you could help him see the possible benefits." Jet nodded. "Now," Barleigh continued, "Tell me how in the world a guy gets half-eviscerated like that. My soap opera doesn't come on for an hour."

Faye was, in fact, on a bounty, one worth a quarter-mill, not too shabby. She stood in the shadows of a smoky bar, waiting for the show on stage to begin. Faye knew who her target was, and she wanted to wait until the group got a little more liquored up and a whole lot sloppier. She'd already spotted at least two bodyguard-types who could be trouble. _Perhaps I'll just wait for the second set,_ Faye thought. _I don't want to bring down the whole party for the cover-paying crowd._

Just then, the woman on the stage opened her mouth and sang with a voice that had been strained through decades of unfiltered cigarettes and blended scotch whiskey, a voice that grated on the nerves yet still made the listener search for a partner to take home that night, to sweat into each other to the soundtrack of this woman who sounded like a hung-over angel. _If I could sing like that, my debt would be gone,_ mused Faye. _Christ, if I could sing like that, then maybe Spike . . ._ but the only image of Spike she'd been able to muster these days was the sight of him laid out in that hospital bed. She'd cried herself to sleep, seeing the lunkhead so completely decimated like that. She'd been to visit him only a couple of times since then, but hid out of sight until she knew that he was asleep. If she only looked at his closed eyes, then she saw the Spike she knew.

Faye took another slug of her cheap blended whiskey, looking over the crowd for her target, and letting the rumble and rasp of the female singer vibrate into her muscles. Faye allowed herself to think briefly of Jet, and the night they'd shared her bed. Unfortunately, once she got the image of Jet in her mind, there was no shaking it, and the guttural tremolo of the singer wasn't helping. _Oh, just go and bitch-slap your bounty so you can go home,_ Faye thought to herself. The singer reached the end of her song, and Faye slid off her barstool and sashayed over to her mark.

"Hi, sailor," Faye purred as she leaned over her mark's shoulder. He turned his big, bushy head and leered down her body.

"What can I do for you, darling?" sneered the bounty.

"Undressing me with your eyes? How uncouth." And with that, Faye slammed the butt end of her pistol into the mark's head and he went down like a bag of rocks. Sighing, Faye slapped on the cuffs and called the cops.

The singer on stage never missed a single beat, but she caught Faye's eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Faye picked up the mark's half-finished drink, raised it in a salute to the bourbon-burned pipes of the woman on stage.

The big shaggy dog shook his head, hard, making his ears flap._ My story? You want to know the story behind how I, Blood, got here? My story is the simplest of all. I lost my owner. I was left behind. I was rescued. Rescued to this. To here. Fuck._

Even the most helpless can find a way to be manipulative, as Spike discovered. One way was to simply hold his breath. This eventually sent up so many bells and whistles that half the staff came running. The other method was to become dead weight whenever Barleigh or anyone else tried to get him to move. It made Barleigh the angriest of all, because Spike was simply not well enough to be anywhere else, to be someone else's thorn, at this time. The couple of times that Barleigh had actually gotten his recalcitrant patient up and moving, stitches broke loose and there was internal bleeding, resulting in more surgery.

Finally, this had driven Barleigh (or more precisely, his subordinates) to research what could assist in this man's recovery and effectively get him out of his hair. Stevens had found the information about the nano-technology, which was something good and proper, especially since Stevens was the neurologist. But Kennedy had found even better information: the story behind Spike's financial benefactor that was paying for all this nonsense.

Barleigh limped into Spike's room and slammed his cane on the top of the bedside table, making a horrible clang. Spike opened his eyes and looked at Barleigh. "So you're the heir of the Red Dragons?"

Spike hadn't expected this, and frankly, he didn't know what Barleigh was talking about. So he blinked in the affirmative.

"You, my friend, are not getting better, and I don't see a chance for improvement. Hence, I am strongly recommending surgery for . . ." Barleigh went on, but Spike stopped listening after he heard that he wasn't improving. _Christ,_ thought Spike. _What the hell did I do to deserve dying as a lump in a fucking hospital? I must be living because only life can play a cruel joke like this._

"If I told you the surgery has a real good chance of killing you, would you pay attention?"

Spike slid his eyes over to meet Barleigh's.

"I don't want to bore you with my own stories of quiet desperation as I lay in a hospital bed, but I also know for a fact you've been palming your meds. Let me tell you something, there is neither dignity nor glory in dying, whether you hose yourself on meds, flat line in the OR, or get half-eviscerated by an old school chum over a leggy blonde."

Spike glared at Barleigh with all the hate he could muster.

"You may be the heir of the Red Dragons, but right now, you can't even take a piss without a Foley in your pipe. I think that makes you my bitch, mister."

No response.

"Your body is much smarter than you are, and your body wants to live. But if you don't go ahead with this surgery, that life is going to be reduced to you remaining almost motionless and forcing yourself to control your drooling. And because we have fancy shiny instruments and lots of drugs and machines that we know how to use, that could be for, oh, another sixty years or so. Or you could have this surgery, and you can die on the table, as I said, or you can get better."

Spike closed his eyes. He'd been trying to find out if he'd been alive or dead, only to end up doing both at the same time. Spike opened his eyes to see Barleigh standing over him, leaning on his cane, with an expressionless face. Spike blinked his assent, and he thought for a moment he saw something in Barleigh's eyes that could have been relief.

"And here we are again," said Faye. Jet grunted. They were in a surgical waiting room, but since this was the neurology division and the surgeries tended to be much longer, this room was exceptionally comfortable. Faye sighed for what seemed like the ninetieth time, and said, "I could be doing something else."

"For once in your life, do what's expected of you," snapped Jet.

"It doesn't make sense to sit here for ten hours when I could be bringing money in. Even you can't deny that."

Jet rubbed his face and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No, I can't. And I thank you, Faye, for working as hard as you have."

This might have been one of the kindest things Jet had ever said to her, and she bit her lip as she looked at Jet. Then she saw a tear falling straight from his eyes to the floor, and she turned away. "It's going to be okay."

"Everything will be different."

"Different can be okay."

Jet chuckled at that, and rubbed his face again. Looking at Faye, he said, "I need some fresh air, and I'd like some company."

Faye smirked. "You're asking for _my_ company?"

"Sure, why not. Different can be okay."

Spike was dreaming again, dreaming again of the Esperanto speaking women in diminutive clothing. He still couldn't tell if they were complimenting the chef or requesting the three-way, but he really hoped it was the latter. But this time was different. It seemed that the Esperanto was getting louder and louder, and a deep base _thrum _was being emitted under the Esperanto, which was not only getting louder, but also higher in pitch, to the point that the language was now unintelligible. The decibels grew higher and higher and the vibration of an invisible sub-woofer got stronger and stronger, and the entire cacophony reminded Spike of a very very old song by the Grasshoppers or the Beetles or some band named after a bug, he couldn't remember. The recording was called _Sgt. Pepper_ or something, and the last part of the last track sounded like a violinist caught in a turbine, while someone tuned a bobcat nearby.

The noise reached a fever pitch, and Spike's eyes flashed open.

The noise stopped immediately. Spike, sweating and shaken, breathed hard as he tried to orient himself again. It looked like a hospital room. Again. Still. Always.

Spike got completely startled once again when the grizzled face of Barleigh leaned over his. "Hello again," said the doctor. Spike lay silent as he continued to try to control his breathing. "It's rude not to respond, Spike. I said _hello_." Spike blinked. "Not like that. Use your words." Spike began to work his mouth for a moment when he realized that he had more control over it. He didn't have to struggle to keep it closed, and it seemed that the bottom lip, which had fallen into a droopy sneer before, was now back where it should be, evenly against his upper lip.

With a great effort, Spike forced his tongue to move. "Lo."

And Barleigh smiled in return.


	7. My Soul is Duct Taped to this Body

_So __now__ **my **_**_soul_****_ is _****_duct _****_taped_****_ to _****_this _****_body_**_  
__whose __life __will __some day __end__.  
__I've __found__ a __limited __amount__ of __answers__,  
__but __the __questions __never __end__. – 30 ft tall_

* * *

A noise startled Ein awake. _I almost caught the uneatable thing this time. I almost found out why it was uneatable._ Getting to his feet, Ein went looking for the cause of the noise. He didn't have to look hard. 

"Faye, I told you, that's how it's going to be."

"I am **not** becoming a nursemaid to Spike!"

"Did I ask you to, Faye?"

"No, but I assume that's what's going to happen. The woman always becomes the nurse. Fuck that, I'm outta here."

"There's a promise I'd like to see you keep."

"Fuck you too, Jet Black!"

"You already did that."

There was a long pause. Faye's coffee mug went whizzing through the air and exploded near Jet's head. She turned on her heel and began to stalk out the door. Unfortunately, Ein got underfoot, and she tripped over him. Ein yelped and ran to Jet, narrowly missing getting kicked broadside.

"Goddamnit, Faye! Don't kick the damn dog!"

"I _hate_that thing! He's always staring at me, like he can read my mind!" Faye broke into sobs. "I just don't think I can deal with Spike being the way he is now, Jet. He's not the same person."

"I've been around Spike a lot longer than you. And I don't like this idea at all, either. But we're not going to have a choice. He's getting a lot stronger, and the PT department says he's improving physically, but they're getting tired of putting up with him. It's been a long time since you've seen him. He can get up and move around now, and he's starting to talk."

Ein knew that was true. The implantation of the chips into Spike's cortex had been successful. Spike was starting to regain movement of his mouth, and his left leg was improving as well. He had some limited use of his left hand. However, Spike's accomplishments only did more to anger and depress him, according to his chart. He was brutal to the rehab staff and this Dr. Barleigh in particular, lashing out with his good limbs hard enough to hospitalize one technician, which caused the remaining staff to hunt Spike down with a tranquilizer dart. No wonder they wanted to get rid of him.

Faye finally sighed and said, "So who has to work with him?"

"We'll figure it out. Ein should help. Animals are good therapy."

"For what? Kicking practice?"

_Sheesh_.

Later, Ein reviewed the notes in Spike's hospital chart. It seemed that Spike had regained full mental acuity, although, it was noted, he had an "anger management" problem.

_Sounds like a full recovery to me, _the other voice mused.

Ein chortled at that notion, and how true it was. _So he can think, he can walk, some, at least. But he still can't talk nor use his hand very well. Meaning he can't fight. Meaning Spike has essentially lost his entire idiom._

There had been a brief period when Spike wasn't quite so angry, when he first had those chips implanted in his brain. They didn't help with his communication skills as well as they thought they would, though. _And after all the years the lab had to work on them, too. They probably never improved much. The chips had always been limited in their capacity._

_The real question is, though, would the chips work in a human at all?_

Ein shuddered. The chips hadn't worked as planned in dogs, either.

This time, the Corgi was the one unceremoniously dumped into his Plexiglas box with a bone-shaped cookie. In Kid's opinion, his own testicles had a better taste sensation. He idly wondered how the coats would like eating these horrible cookies. Still, he snapped up the 'treat', as he didn't want to necessarily find out how the coats would react to his refusing food, as Ranger was doing. Kid gave himself a shake and a scratch to his ear, and then went to the divider, beyond which he could see Blood, lying quietly with his eyes closed. _Blood?_

_Kid? _Blood's eyes fluttered open, and he stood and stretched mightily._ How'd it go?_

_They showed me some of the same pictures as you. I think I saw what they wanted me to see. At least they seemed pleased, in their heads. I tried to hear their thoughts, and I got some of it, I think._

_That's not bad, Kid. _

_But there was something else. . . I couldn't see the computer, not the screen of it. I wanted to see what they were actually saying about me. So I looked over at the computer and . . . I think I saw inside of it._

_Inside the computer?_

_It was strange, Blood, like lots of hills and valleys like the outside, but dark with lots of bright lights, and all kinds of strange noises. And it was big; Blood, so big, and I thought that this couldn't be the inside of the little computer. But I could see words, and I knew what they meant, and there were lots of files, full of information about all of us. The one that was open was "417". I knew it was about me. I was so surprised that I barked, or something, and then the computer stopped working._

_The computer stopped working?_

_This isn't **dictation**, Blood._

_Ha ha._

_But I could hear the coats thinking louder then. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with the computer. But one of the coats kept staring at me. So I just thought about nothing, and then I didn't tell them what I saw on any of the other cards._

_Good job, Kid. Now we've got more time, I think. Keep doing things like that with the coats. . ._

_But don't let them know I can do that._

_You're catching on, Kid. You might make a dog of yourself yet._

There was a thud. Kid and Blood immediately looked over to Ranger. In the low light, it appeared that Ranger was attempting to get up on all fours and then not making it.

_Ranger? Are you okay?_

_The fire stick . . . like the shining wire for rabbits . . . it's the end._

Blood and Kid looked at each other, and then back at Ranger. Blood finally spoke. _Why are you talking about the end, Ranger? What about the shining wire?_

_It's so bright, so bright, the glare and the hum. Whispers. It wasn't supposed to happen. And the goose. The fox in the field is the uneatable. It hurts. It hurts so much._

Blood and Kid continued to stare at Ranger. _Kid, were you able to get into the file for Ranger?_

_I didn't try._

_Can you try **now**?_

_It's . . . I don't know. The computer is so far away._

_Just **try**, dammit!_

_Blood, I . . . okay. _Kid shut his eyes tight, crouching down with his nose on his paws. He could almost see the computer, he could almost see it in his mind, and he reached with all his strength, and he stumbled through the hills inside the computer, blindly looking for something, anything that could help Blood tell him why Ranger was acting so scary.

Blood was pacing. Ranger's jaw was slack and saliva dripped from his mouth. He gave a shiver and began speaking again.

_It's the end and it's time to celebrate it hurts finding the white stuff under the sink and you're done it hurts to run into the street helped and supported no play living with voices **it hurts** ran into the street and the cars the cars oh the noise they made but it won't be taken as a real threat and Sister oh Sister the Mistress smells wrong **it hurts **if only temporary then . . ._

_Kid? Kid? Have you found anything yet?_

Kid wrenched some of his attention away from the directory of files he was poring over. _Dammit to hell, Blood! I can't do this if you're interrupting me!_

Ranger now began to beat the top of his head against the wall of his box, and Blood began pawing at the wall of his box and whimpering.

_I'm sorry! Just . . . **please**, do **something**!_

_Something . . . there must be something . . . this is too **slow**!_ It was harder this time, the computer was must have been off, and not logged in directly to the files that recorded the dogs. Suddenly, the files went flashed brightly. A coat was in the system. _No! They'll find me in here!_ Suddenly, he found a single small file, dark and pulsing: 1025. Ranger's number. But before he could reach it, the system stopped. Then the lights came on in the lab. Dogs began barking everywhere. Kid looked over to see Ranger, who had managed to work some of his wires out of his head, and he was bleeding. Human voices, loud, yelling to be heard over the din of the dogs. Blood was running back and forth, and Fang, who had awoken with the lights, clawed frantically at the Plexiglas divider. But Kid couldn't take it all in. The files went dark. He swayed, and crawled over to the divider between himself and Blood.

_Blood . . ._

_Kid! Are you okay?_

_I think so . . . so tired. I saw Ranger's file. But I couldn't get in. I think the file was corrupted, and then the system locked me out. I think the coats knew I was there._

_You did good, Kid, don't beat yourself up._

_Ranger? Is he okay?_

_The coats just took him away._

_What's going to happen to him, Blood? What's going to happen to **me**? Am I going to go like Ranger? Are you?_

_I don't know, Kid._

_I'm scared._

_Me too._

Spike sat at a table in the Physical Therapy room, his hand in a shallow box of uncooked rice. This session involved Spike simply running his left hand through the rice, back and forth, picking up handfuls of it. He had been doing this before with a box of dry pinto beans. The beans were much easier than the rice. _Twenty-seven years old and I'm playing with food, _thought Spike with a sigh. He also didn't like being under the watchful eye of Nurse Queen Bitch with the ever-present pneumatic injection of Haldol, either. But the times in the weeks past when he'd fought against the PT technicians, he'd been tranquilized Chappaquiddick – as his mother was fond of saying -- and restrained to his bed. And then Barleigh would come back and give him merry hell.

_Speak of the devil and he sends his dog_, thought Spike as the very man he'd been thinking about came stumping into the room. "How is my favorite recalcitrant patient today?" bubbled Barleigh. _He looks dreadfully pleased,_ thought Spike. _Maybe he finally got himself some. Or he diddled himself with his cane. I hope he washed it off._

"Good news, my chickybaby. You're going home."

Spike's eyes went wide. _Home? To the Bebop?_ Then he chided himself, for what other home did he have?

"Don't you have anything to say to that?" probed Barleigh. Spike shook his head. "Do you have nothing to say or are you saying 'no, I'm not going home.' Which is it? Use your words."

Spike glared at Barleigh for a moment. He knew how much Spike hated to do this. "N-n-n-n-n-n-uh . . . th-th-th-in. . . t-ooo. . . shhhhhh-ay." _And the gibbering moron speaks again._

"You know, you have that perfect village idiot thing going for you. Maybe you should consider a career change. Anyway. Sign here. Your _compadres_ are waiting for you outside."

_So soon?_

Barleigh gazed at Spike for a moment. "Interesting. With all the fuss you've been making, I thought you'd be jumping for joy to get out of here. Well, jumping as well as you can jump. But we can't do anything more for you here than you can do on your own elsewhere." And then Barleigh extended his hand. Spike stared at it for a moment, and then gripped Barleigh's hand with his. "Good luck, and goodbye, Mr. Spiegel. I hope that the next time I see you, you will be running circles around me." And Barleigh stumped back out of the room, leaving Spike sitting there, his left hand in a box of rice, filled with an unexplainable feeling of apprehension. _What's going to happen to me, Barleigh?_

_Waiting again_, thought Faye, as she and Jet sat in yet another waiting room, waiting for Spike's release. _Whoever said that one of life's biggest lessons was how to wait wasn't just whistling Dixie. _Faye looked over at Jet, who had a magazine on his lap that he wasn't looking at. Jet held his chin in his hand as he appeared to stare at something across the room. Feeling rather snarky, Faye began to whistle _Dixie_.

"Stop that," snapped Jet.

"Touchy."

"Show some respect for where you are."

"Funny, that sounds remarkably like something you said to me yesterday."

Jet caught Faye's eye and frowned. _Yesterday, indeed_. . . They had gotten the call that Spike was being released. Jet was baffled. "What do you mean, being released?"

Thompson, who looked very weary on the other end of the comm., said, "We can't do any more for him here. Either he goes back with you guys, or, if you can't handle him . . . well, then I don't know. He won't take his meds, because, as he says, they make him catatonic."

"Spike actually said that?"

"No, he actually wrote it on a wall, but it was punctuated with quite a bit more foul language. He took Barleigh's cane one afternoon and broke it over his knee. He's stronger than he realizes, but a lot of that is fueled by anger and frustration."

"How much of that frustration is from the stroke itself? The damage to his cortex?"

"It's hard to say."

"So how in the world do you expect us to handle him?"

"He's your friend. But you'll have to be stern."

Jet sighed. "He's a grown man, not a dog, for crying out loud."

Thompson sighed in return. "He'll be released into your care tomorrow at 2 p.m. We'll try to wear him out in PT for you."

"Thanks," replied Jet. He clicked off the comm. and rubbed his face. _Jesus._

Just then, Faye burst in with a pair of large grocery bags. "Food, glorious food . . ." She cut off her sing-song tone when she saw Jet's face. "What?"

"Spike's being released."

Faye's face fell. "When?"

"Tomorrow at 2 p.m." Faye remained quiet and moved into the kitchen. Jet followed her and watched her for a few moments as she put groceries away, leaving some chicken on the counter. This was their current routine: Faye would buy the groceries, and each day, she'd leave out whatever it was that she'd like Jet to make for dinner. Jet would comply. It was such a simple arrangement, one that made for peace on the ship, as well as being so comforting when the two of them were in a constant state of flux regarding both Spike's and their own futures. Faye ran out of groceries to put away, and she stood with her back to Jet, gripping the counter edge. "You knew this day would come, Faye."

"I know. But . . . it's like when someone you know is dying a slow death. You know they're going to die, but it's still a shock when it actually happens. This is the same thing. But in reverse."

It wasn't exactly, but Jet knew what she was trying to say. She was frightened, that's all there was to it. Against his better judgment, Jet came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Faye immediately brought her hands up to his.

_Oh, god, she smells too good_, thought Jet, as he dropped his nose into the short hairs at the nape of her neck. Jet's warm breath warmed Faye and gave her goose bumps at the same time. She drew in a ragged breath, although she didn't mean to, and her eyes flashed open as she waited to see if Jet caught it. He had, and he took her reaction to be a statement of acquiescence, and he tilted his chin to lightly kiss the back of her neck. Faye drew another sharp breath, and her eyes fluttered closed. She took a half-step back to better hold her back against his front, and her hips tilted backwards to better feel his crotch against his backside, immediately feeling what she hoped she would. Faye turned her head slightly to give Jet better access to her left ear, and she drew Jet's hands up to her breasts. Jet reached one large hand into her abbreviated top, and the other undid the few buttons with practiced ease, and her blouse fell open. Faye arched her back, reached behind her, and came in contact with the fly of Jet's pants, feeling how hard he was within them.

With a timeless grace, Faye turned within Jet's arms so that they were now face to face. Jet was landing kisses on her jaw, and his hands reached down to cup her backside. Her hands remained on the front of his pants as they unbuttoned the fly and then her right hand reached into the warmth of between his legs and Jet gave a throaty moan. Still connected in this way, Jet and Faye made their way to Jet's room, only a short distance from the kitchen. Once there, Jet left the door open as he stripped Faye of her brief clothing in one swipe of his hands. His garments were more difficult to divest of, but they managed without a word, and Jet lifted Faye and followed her into his bed in one fluid movement.

His hand raked up her thigh and between her legs without preamble and he dropped his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth. She was already wet with want, and her fingernails scraped down his back. He kissed down her breast, down her stomach, and moved her left leg so that he could access her better with his tongue. Faye cried out at his first touch. Jet gave a single chuckle and went back to his ministrations with his mouth as Faye gasped wordlessly and bucked her hips. Jet stopped just short of her release, which annoyed Faye enough to roughly push Jet onto his back and straddle him briefly as she clamped his collarbone in her jaw.

Faye then worked her own way down, pressing her breasts together with him clasped between them, and Jet groaned with his own pleasure. Then Faye settled back on her heels, and lightly ran her finger up the underside of his shaft. Jet groaned again. Faye grinned wickedly, and then leaned forward to lick the trail that her fingernail had just made. "Oh Jesus, Faye . . ." Jet dropped his head back and moaned. "Show some respect for where you are."

"Paybacks," said Faye softly, but she was aching for release herself. Faye knee-walked forward again, and settled herself on Jet, moaning herself at the pleasure of feeling him inside her. For a while, they rocked together, gaining speed until Faye leaned her head back with a guttural cry, and shortly after, Jet grasped her hips tightly and made his own cry of pleasure. They continued to rock for a few moments, keeping the same rhythm, until Faye came slowly to a stop, breathing hard. Jet was breathing in time with her. They looked at each other for a moment, and Jet took one of Faye's hands and kissed the palm.

Their eyes met again, and remained locked as they both regained control. Faye looked away and bit her lip. Jet's brow furrowed. Faye rocked backwards a bit, removing him from her, and she moved to get up from the bed.

Jet held on to her hand. "Faye. . ." Faye stopped moving, but she kept her gaze decidedly away from Jet. "Faye," he began again. "We've done nothing to be ashamed of."

"Speak for yourself," muttered Faye, and she pulled her hand free, grabbed her discarded clothing, and hurried from the room.

Jet watched her go as he rolled to his side. _Spike's coming home_, he thought. _What's going to happen to us? To me?_

If Jet had been able to read minds, then he would have found out that Faye was asking herself the exact same thing as she threw herself on her own bed: _What's going to happen to us? To me?_

Ein was cognizant of everything that had just occurred. He wasn't as good as reading into people as he used to be, nor as well as others that he had known, but the anguish in the air was unmistakable. _What's going to happen to us?_

_We'll all find out soon enough_, the other voice said.

Ein suddenly ached with longing for the companionship of Ed. He wished he could learn what was happening to her. But she was on another planet. And although he could have possibly tapped into Tomato from where he was, he didn't.


	8. Voices That Don't Make a Sound

_I hear voices when no one's around _

_Silent voices that no one can see _

_I hear **voices that don't make a sound** – Black Flag_

* * *

In the weeks that Spike had been in recovery, Ein had been watching a metamorphosis of sorts in Jet and Faye. In the beginning of this ordeal, they had been living their lives in anticipation that Spike would recover as he always did after his ubiquitous injuries. Lately, though, the slow realization had been catching up to them: this may be a permanent condition. Spike may never fully recover. Even though Faye was more vocal about her concerns than Jet, Ein believed that Jet was having the harder time dealing with this. Jet was an engineer, mechanically minded. Words and feelings tended to escape Jet. He couldn't just take a spanner and a set of hypersonic screwdrivers to Spike's head and body and simply fix them.

There were clanging noises as bay doors opened. Spike was back. Ein retreated from the computer and trotted into sight to greet the man.

Even though Ein had been in Spike's hospital chart everyday, he had not been prepared for the actual physical presence of Spike. Always in Ein's mind, Spike was a lanky yet wiry man, not especially tall, with a mop of greenish-black hair that was unruly and a face that was smirking with some internal and usually off-color thoughts. What Ein saw, though, was a shock.

Spike was thin, painfully thin, his skin stretched over his bones, with a pallor that spoke of long hospitalization. His hair was cut close to his head, the multiple scars extremely visible. One incision in particular stretched over the top of Spike's head from ear to ear, and from the top of his head to the nape of his neck, and it bore the trail marks of many staples, and looked fresher than the other scars. Ein surmised that this was the incision for the nano-chips. His face was slack, but Ein could see Spike working his jaw in concentration as he maneuvered down the corridor to the common area, using a pair of walking sticks. His left foot dragged a bit. Faye and Jet lingered a bit behind him, unsure if they should assist. There was a moment when Spike reached the short staircase leading down to the sofa area. He seemed to muse slightly at the steps, and then turned to the pair behind him. Spike raised an eyebrow and thrust his sticks at them. They each grabbed one as Spike then grabbed hold of each handrail, steadying himself as he moved slowly, slowly down each step. When he finally reached the bottom, Spike turned around expectantly.

Faye and Jet stood transfixed. "Good job on the stairs, Spike. I wasn't sure how well you'd take those. I didn't know if I'd have to jury-rig a ramp or what. Because we weren't too sure about how . . ." Jet would have yammered on except that Spike rolled his eyes and reached out with his hands, clearly but silently asking for his canes back.

"Oh! Sorry! Here you go!" Jet spoke with such an assumed brightness that it even annoyed Ein. Spike simply nodded and made his way to the sofa, where he set himself down with a fairly practiced ease, using the sticks for balance.

Jet and Faye looked at each other. "Umm . . . is there anything you need? Anything? Hungry? Something to drink?" Faye was also speaking much too quickly and brightly. This almost seemed to amuse Spike. He shook his head. "Are you sure? Pillow? Blanket? Book?" Spike made a smoking gesture and Faye came forward with a pack and a lighter. She made a great fool of herself, struggling to open the packet, until Spike grabbed it away from her. When he touched her hand, she shrunk back with a gasp, and then turned red as Spike looked at her, furrowing his brow. Then he managed a smoke out of the pack, lit it, drew a deep inhale, and exhaled slowly, stretching his arms out along the back of the sofa. Spike then flicked his hand at the two humans, as if to say "Go away." Jet and Faye looked at each other, and then Jet retreated to his bonsai and Faye to her room.

Ein, of course, remained. He sat, patiently, watching the thin human as he savored his cigarette.

_Oh, god, my first smoke in sixteen weeks. This might be the best cigarette in the whole fucking **universe**_, thought Spike.

_It certainly looks that way,_ responded Ein.

Spike lifted his head with such a start that the ash fell into his lap. "Wa t'hll?" he said aloud. Looking around, and seeing no one, Spike took another drag. _Hearing things_.

_After a fashion, yes._

"Hoo tal'in?" Spike looked around, until his eyes rested on the dog. _I thought you left with Ed. You're back?_

_Yes, I am. It's good to have you back, as well._

"Wa t'fuh?"

_Listen, I know that they were trying to get you to talk in the hospital, but that's not going to work so well right now with us, so just use your words in your head, okay? _

_**What** the **fuck**?_

_That's better._

_Are you fucking **talking **to **me**?_

_Yes, I am fucking talking to you._

_In my fucking **head**?_

_Yes, I'm fucking talking to you in your fucking head, can we fucking well drop all the use of "fucking" in our vernacular; it's really just going to clutter up our conversations. And by the way, your pants are on fire._

Spike gave a yelp and brushed the ash out of his lap.

_Excellent,_ thought Ein. _This is actually going to work out pretty well._

Another day in the box. Ranger had been returned to his box a few days before, with a fresh cover on his head. Blood and Kid figured that he was still tranquilized, as their attempts at a conversation accomplished nothing. Kid, meanwhile, had been using his time under observation studying the coats themselves. And quietly hack the network.

_What were you able to bring back this time, Kid?_

_They've been upgrading to a new system. It's easier to maneuver. I managed to get the schematics of the building. I know the way out of here, now._

_Fuckin' A, Kid!_

_I had to give back more this time, though. My notes were saying that I was regressing. They moved me past using pictures and now they're up to flash cards, ones that have mathematical problems. Childish, really. It's hard to figure out just how much is enough. There's a problem, though._

_And what's that?_

_It's Fang. I was able to get into his file._

_What about Fang?_

_The notes say that Fang has probably reached the limit of expectations. He's neither progressing nor regressing. The coats may be terminating the experiment soon._

_I thought that might happen, Kid. I noticed that the coats are mixing up the schedule. I've been trying to get him to see that he can't just be keeping the status quo, that he has to start messing with the data. He's so fucking **stupid**, though!_

Fang rolled over in his sleep. _Shut the fuck up over there, you pansies_.

Blood snorted. _Look who you're calling pansy, you big bad Newfoundland that can't break out of his box._

_Fuck you, flea bait. I bit two of the coats today._

_You did **what**?_

_Bit 'em. Bit 'em both. Nearly took off the finger of one of them!_

Blood stood up and began pacing around the box. _Why in the name of **fuck **did you do that? If you can't be controlled for their shitty experiments they're going to put a fu**c**king bullet in your head! They're not going to keep working with a stupid dog that bites! They don't pay these assholes enough for that!_

_Fuck you, Blood; they're not going to shoot me! They say I'm too close to finishing the experiment!_

_Fang, shooting you **is **the end of the fucking experiment! They're already at the end of their theory! Why didn't you start screwing with the data like I told you?_

_Like you know everything, Blood? How the hell would have messing with the data help?_

_By buying us more **time**, you numb nuts!_

_Hush._

Blood and Fang halted their standoff. Kid, who had been watching mutely, now realized that Ranger was the one who had spoken.

_Ranger?_

Ranger stood in his box, head tilted toward a sound only he could hear. _The time is near._

Spike was breathing hard. He clutched both hand rails of the steps with all his might. With a grunt, he pulled himself up the bottom step.

_Not that way. Don't put all your weight on your arms. Use your feet._

Spike turned his head and glared at Ein.

_Yeah, Spike, if looks could kill, yadda yadda, we're trying to get you more steady on your feet here. You should only be using your hands for balance._

_We're trying to make my arm stronger, too._

_Not at this time. We're working on the feet and legs right now._

_You're fucking pushy for a dog, you know that?_

Ein snorted. Spike gave him another baleful glare, and then took a breath. He straightened up his spine, and stopped clutching with a death grip at the handrails. With his hands lightly – or as lightly as Spike was comfortable with -- he pulled his bad leg up onto the next step. With a bit of a hop, he got his other leg up to the same step.

_Good job, Spike._

_Big deal. One step._

_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

_Very deep, Ein. Did they teach you that in whatever lab you came from?_

_No, Grasshopper, pithy sayings were not part of the laboratory syllabi. Now turn around and come down. Using your legs._

Spike managed to turn around, but his left knee buckled as he stepped down. He grabbed at the handrails to keep from falling.

_That's okay, Spike. Now turn around and go back up._

_Are you fucking **kidding** me, dog? We've been doing this for **hours**!_

_It's only been 46 minutes._

_Fuck you. I need a break._

_Take a break, then. Get over to the couch without using your sticks._

That statement earned another glare from Spike, but he straightened up, and began to make his way to the couch, his arms out for balance. There was a moment when Ein held his breath, willing the recalcitrant patient to continue without falling. Spike finally managed to sit. He sighed, and lit a cigarette.

_You did better on that than you did yesterday, Spike._

_Doesn't seem like it to me._

_I've been keeping a close watch. You have improved greatly._

_Again, doesn't seem like it._

_Use your left hand to smoke._

_I'm right-handed._

_Use your left hand anyway._

_I'll drop it._

_Then you'll pick it up. Use your left hand._

_Don't. Want. To._

_But. You. Will._

_What the **fuck** kind of programming do you have, anyway? When we found you, you were in a goddamned **briefcase**._

_I was originally created for use in an experimental case using computer chips to aid in communication between species. _

_So you're artificially created?_

_More like genetically and surgically enhanced._

_Why the fuck'd they use a **Corgi**, then?_

Ein blinked. Then he began to chortle and bark, the only way he knew how to laugh. That question never had asked of him, in all his years.

Faye had been quietly watching from the darkened corridor. If she hadn't known better, she would have said that Spike was communicating with the dog. _Well, that's just ridiculous_, she thought. Spike hated that thing. But more and more, Spike paid close attention to the Corgi, and the Corgi seemed to do the same. Spike spent more time with the dog than either she or Jet.

"What are you looking at?"

Faye jumped at the whisper in her ear. Jet was so close behind her that she was surprised that she didn't smell him coming. But then, as she controlled her breathing, she realized that the smell of spices and soap that came off Jet were so familiar to her that she had accepted their presence as normal. "How long have you been standing there?"

Jet smirked at her. "A couple of minutes, actually. I was about to start blowing into your ear to see if that got a reaction out of you." Faye glared back at him. "Are you watching Spike?"

"Yeah."

"He's been working hard."

"And?"

Jet furrowed his brow. "And what?"

Faye sighed. "I figured you'd say that I was hardly working."

"Nothing of the sort. You've been working your tail feather off." This was true. Faye had bringing down bounties like never before, and she always gave Jet a cut. It wasn't much, usually around 1000 to 5000 woolongs, but she handed over the credits without a word. Furthermore, Jet was surprised when he realized that Faye wasn't spending like she normally did. He wanted to know the true reason behind this change in behavior, but then he realized that she'd gone back to looking at Spike, who'd finished his cigarette and had struggled to his feet again, limping to the stairs, and slowly, so slowly, began his step exercises once more. Faye shivered, and turned, briefly looking at Jet as she went. Jet thought he saw a wetness in her eyes that was more pronounced than usual, so he didn't say anything to her, either. But he watched Spike for a while as he struggled up and down the steps. Jet was proud of how well Spike was doing, but like Faye, the omni-present dog with Spike was confusing to him as well.

Blood had been pacing, which was making Kid nervous. Ranger had not spoken since his last cryptic statement, not even to explain. He had been removed from his box several times to be observed, but Ranger made no comment of what kind of actions he'd been asked to perform.

Fang, meanwhile, was not being asphyxiated anymore. Yet he remained in his box. Every morning he would greet Blood with a hearty 'Good morning, they didn't shoot me last night.' Blood wouldn't respond. He also hadn't been to observation in quite some time, not since Kid had been going on a regular basis.

Kid had been making some headway into the computer files while under observation himself. It was becoming easier to hack the files while in his box as well, despite the constantly-changing encryption. The act still made Kid tired, though, as much more concentration was required. Blood was also less and less interested in any of the files on the dogs. He was more concerned with what Kid was finding: information about the outside world.

_What d'you see now, Kid?_

_Blood, I told you, these things go pretty slow. Sometimes the coats have time to get a cup of coffee while they wait for the next screen to load._

_Can't you speed it up?_

_It doesn't have anything to do with me. It has to do with the wire that connects the computer to the outside._

_Can you get into the wire?_

Kid hadn't even considered this possibility. So he disengaged from the computer and reached into the cable itself. Kid suddenly had the sensation being _pulled_, and then he was somewhere else. Codes and languages dashed by his presence quicker than he had ever known. And the vastness of the space was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

_This must be what flying is like!_

_Kid? What's going on?_

_Blood! I've never seen any place that was so beautiful! Everything you could ever want _

_to know is here! I can find anything!_

_Anything? Is there anything about this place?_

_Yes! Yes! Lots of things, about the nature of this laboratory and the kinds of experiments they do here. But, wait. . . that's not right._

_What? What?_

_It's like a book, Blood, but there are all sorts of things in here that aren't right. Nothing about the implanted chips or suffocation. All it talks about is "advances in medical research." And it seems like it's all written by the coats. Why would they do that? Why would they lie about what they do here?_

_Why shouldn't they? Do you think the coats **want** the outside world to know what they actually do here?_

_Wait. What's this?_

_What? What is it, Kid?_

_There's another reference here to the lab. But it's not . . . What's PETA?_

_PETA? What the hell are you talking about?_

_People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,_ said Ranger.

Kid was so surprised that he quickly withdrew from the cable, and the shock snapped across his brain like a sharp slap. Ranger was crouched on all fours, his eyes staring into space. He would occasionally tic with a small shiver of his head. _I'm sorry, Kid. I didn't mean to frighten you. That's where I've been, where you just were. But it takes me so long. You're better at it than I. And it hurts._

_Don't do it then_, whimpered Blood. _Don't do it. It doesn't hurt the Kid, it just makes him tired._

Ranger shivered again_. I know where to look. I just had to remember. That's why it took so long. Back when I was Poppet, she knew them. That's how she got me._

_What do you mean?_ Kid was starting to shiver himself. Ranger sighed and turned his focus to Kid.

For a moment, all was silence. Then, without warning, the pictures began to flood into Kid's mind, pictures of Ranger's life before he came to this place. The other laboratory, what they did to him there, the chemical testing on his skin and in his ears and in his eyes. Every moment was filled with the searing burns of the chemicals and the wretched internal pain of the products he was forced to ingest, even if their ingestion was never the intention. He watched other dogs die around him from what the coats forced on each of them, but the cruelty was that he never got experience that sweet relief.

And then, there was a large group of people, not coats, who ran into the facility and removed as many animals as they could get. Mistress was the one who had removed Poppet/Ranger, and she made a new life for him in a lovely farmhouse in the country, where he was a dog. Mistress. Oh, Mistress, how he'd loved her. She fed him treats and rubbed his belly, kept him warm, and there were no horrific needle pokes or bad chemicals dripped into his eyes when he lived with her. He got to run over the hills and downs of the countryside, and chase the uneatable across the moors. He got to howl at the moon.

But then the most horrible day happened. The car. The blood in the street. The horrified face of Sister of Mistress as she screamed. Being bundled into another box and sent to this laboratory. How he'd feared that the chemicals would be used again, but the coats had managed to devise even worse things to do to dogs, and he was subjected to the long-lost count of surgeries, to this sting of the metal in his head. The shooting pangs as electrical pulses coursed through the metal in his head. The scream and the pitch and the wail as he began to hear how the coats heard, so different from the melodious tones of Mistress. And the fear, oh the fear, how it pervaded every moment of his day, not the fear that he would die, how he would welcome that moment, but the fear that the metal in his head would take over and he would be a dog no more.

Every image and feeling slammed into Kid's consciousness with a force that sent him crouching as well. Shortly his jaw went slack, and his eyes unfocused. And then he began to understand, he began to gain the knowledge that Ranger had, how there was a group of people, not coats, who were plotting to free them all, just as Poppet/Ranger had been freed before. If only Mistress would be with them, to let Poppet/Ranger run across the moors one last time, chasing the uneatable. Kid began to tic just as Ranger had; meanwhile, Ranger was gaining more and more control of himself. Finally Kid gave a loud eerie cry, something that was not quite a howl.

**_STOP IT!_** Kid fell onto his side and began to pant. His eyes came back into focus.

Ranger sighed, his sad eyes on Kid. _I'm sorry, Kid. I hope I didn't hurt you._

_You didn't, Ranger. It was just . . . too much at once. But I understand now. When? When will it happen?_

_When will **what **happen? _That was Blood, nervously pacing._ Is it that PETA? Are they coming?_

_No, not PETA, _said Ranger. _Someone like them._

_But **when**?_

Just then, the lights went out.

_Perhaps now,_ said Ranger.


	9. Dear Spike

_Dear Spike  
Dear Spike  
What a task it must have been  
Dear Spike  
**Dear Spike  
**I'm so glad to know you didn't forget me – the aquabats_

* * *

_Again._

Spike grimaced with concentration. "M-mm-my nnn-name ish Ell-mer J. F-f-f-fudd, mmm-million-aire. I o-own a mmm-man-shun and a . . . yacht."

_Again._

"M- -my nn-name is Ell-mer J. F-fudd, mm-million-aire. I o-own a mman-shun and a yacht."

_Again._

_Who the fuck is Elmer J. Fudd?_

_It's an old Earth reference. Say it again. Exaggerate your jaw._

"M-my name is E-elmer J. F-fudd, millionaire. I own a m-mansion and a yacht."

_Much better. Do the other one._

_Are you **sure** Jet and Faye can't hear me doing this?_

_Yeah, I'm sure. Do the other one._

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. "Bb-bb-b. B-b-belvedere. C-come here, b-boy."

_Again._

_The 'b' sound is hard._

_I know._

_Can I at least take a break? I'm hungry. And I have a headache._

_Use your words._

Spike sighed again. "C-can I t-t-t. . ."

_**May** I?_

"**M-may **I t-t-take a bb-bb-break? Fff-fucking dog."

_Yes, you may, despite your insult. I've been called worse._

Spike rose from his bed and ventured into the corridor. His balance had improved greatly, and his fingers trailed along the wall, mostly out of security. His steps were slow but steady, and his limp was slowly going away. After only six weeks of being back on the ship, he was feeling a little more like himself. _If only I looked more like myself_. Spike was filling back out a bit, but his clothes still sagged on him, and his hair looked as if he had mange, as it kept growing back unevenly in patches. Lately, Jet had been trimming it evenly but close to his head for him, and Spike wore a watch cap he'd found in the bottom of a dresser drawer. Faye had offered to find him a bobble to sew on top, and he'd thumbed his nose at her, using his weaker left hand. She then flounced out of the room in a huff, leaving Spike grinning to himself, happy that he was still able to get a rise out of her, something he realized he missed greatly.

Spike smelled something familiar and pleasing as he approached the kitchen: beef with peppers. _It actually smells like beef. Jet's getting better at cooking._ Spike turned the corner. "J-jet."

"Spike. How's it going?"

"P-pretty good."

"You hungry? I got beef and peppers. Here's a bowl. You got that?" Jet thrust a bowl into Spike's hands, full and fragrant.

"Jet? There's b-beef in this."

"I said beef and peppers, didn't I?"

"Yeah, b-but. . ." The two men grinned at each other, remembering all the old times when beef was hard to come by. Spike sat at the table and began eating, using his left hand for the chopsticks. Ein was right; using his weak hand for everyday chores made the recovery go faster. He didn't drop the food as much as he used to, and Spike smirked at that realization.

"Hey, Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's Elmer J. Fudd?"

Spike shot a glance towards Ein, who was sitting in the doorway and grinning at him. _Damned dog._ "I-It's an old Ear-earth ref-f-ference."

"Part of your speech therapy?"

"Yeah."

"It's weird, hearing you do that. You've been talking more during that speech therapy than I've heard you say in all the years I've known you."

"Once I-I'm ab-ble to sp-peak p-prop-perly again, I-I'll shut up ag-gain. J-Jusht f-f-for you."

Jet grinned, and then looked distracted for a moment. "I wonder what's keeping Faye."

"What ab-b-bout her?"

"She's been working her ass off, collecting bounties, that's what. She's been paying back what she owes us, and adding a bit besides, keeping us in groceries and all."

"Sh-she hash?"

"Well, yes, the stipulation of the money in Mao's will was to be used only for your hospitalization and subsequest medical bills, but not for daily expenses, which I thought was odd. But I didn't know Mao like you, and you never questioned it, so . . ."

"M-mm-ao?"

Jet turned back to the stove. "I thought it was kind of funny, when the paperwork showed up. It was like Mao knew you'd end up in big trouble one day. It looked like that once he died and you had . . . taken care of Vicious. . .that the Red Dragons would be dissolved and you'd be the sole beneficiary. I have no idea how he managed to do everything above board like that."

Spike's mind whirled. Barleigh had made noise in the hospital about how Spike had been the heir of the Red Dragons. At the time, Spike had simply figured that Barleigh was doing one of his usual bastardly kind of moves, so he'd put it out of his mind. But then, Jet had mentioned before how Spike had placed him as a power of attorney, which Spike knew for a fact he'd never done. Furthermore, Spike was fairly certain that Mao hadn't thought that far ahead as to set up the dissolution of the Red Dragons upon his death. _It doesn't make sense_, Spike thought. _Who could have set something up like that? At the time, the Dragons knew shit was going down, but the elders had already been taken out. The only ones in a position of power would have been Vicious and his cronies._ And while Vicious lived up to his name, Spike also knew that he didn't have a head for business. _Only a very good hacker could . . . But Ed is . . . _Spike turned to Ein. _What the hell did you do?_

_I covered your ass, that's what I did. Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm you caused, going after Vicious like that? If the ISSP hadn't finally shown up . . ._

_Look, dog, I didn't **ask** to have my ass covered._

_The **fuck** you didn't, Spiegel, that's what you do. You create chaos and leave others to mop up after you. I come back here to find Faye and Jet in a state, because you have to go off, thinking you need to die in some blaze of glory, because of your failures in the past. But you lived. _

_That wasn't my intention!_

_Whether or not it was, you still survived, but **I** fixed it so that you would actually get better . . ._

_You call **this** BETTER?_

_. . . You will get **better**, Spike! I'm the one who found the nano-technology and put it right in front of Barleigh and his crew. So you actually have a chance to regain your full faculties and strength instead of drooling anonymously, half-paralyzed in a third-rate mental ward somewhere! Is that how you wanted to live the rest of your days?_

_I didn't want to **live **at all!_

_Oh, spare me the fucking sanctimonious bullshit, Spike._

_You . . . _A hand dropped on Spike's shoulder. Spike jerked and turned to see Jet frowning down at him. "Spike? Are you okay?"

Spike was aware that his hands were clenched into fists, and he was breathing hard. "Yeah, m'okay."

"You keep doing that. Staring at Ein. It's almost like you're talking to him."

Spike sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. "I am t-talking t-to him. We c-com-mun-ni-cate with our m-mindsh. We were j-jusht having an arg-gument."

Jet raised an eyebrow, then clapped Spike on the back. "You always did have a strange sense of humor."

"Yeah." Spike returned his gaze to Ein, but the dog snorted, and walked away.

Faye was walking down the steps of the police station, sliding a card through her credit book that would transfer some funds into Jet's account. Jet must have found his percentage to be fair, as he had yet to complain about it.

But Faye was so tired. It felt like she hadn't properly rested for weeks. But she didn't want to hang around the ship watching Spike struggle through his endless physical therapy. _He is still so different_, Faye thought. _He's nowhere near as obnoxious . . . more like he's just . . .given up. Complacent. But, sometimes . . ._ The other day, he'd thumbed his nose at her, which sent her heart soaring, because it seemed like the old Spike. Yes, she remembered how he'd work his _katas _everyday, but there had been a languid laziness about it in those days, as if Spike had only been going through the motions to keep his muscle memory alive. And now, he had to retrain his muscles entirely.

Her comm. chirped. "Yeah?"

"Faye. You want to go after another one?"

Faye sighed at the image of Jet. What she really wanted was a drink, a new deck of smokes, a massage, a pound of chocolate, and a gorgeous well-hung naked man with sharply cut abs giving her all of the above. _And then some_. "How much?"

"Three-fifty."

"Thousand?"

"Of course."

"Of course, nothing. I only trust you as far as I can throw you."

"Tsk, tsk, Faye, I thought we'd gotten past that point."

Faye never knew what to make of Jet when he made little comments like this. He was easier to handle when he was mad. He gave her the coordinates and other pertinent information and chirped off. The point of reference wasn't far, and she was still fairly flush with ammo, but it would probably behoove her to take the Redtail and move it closer, just in case. _Behoove_, she thought to herself. _There's a 20-woolong word._ She knew that Spike would simply mosey down the twelve blocks or so, but then she wasn't Spike. And Spike wouldn't be wearing the boots she was. _And Spike can't walk like that anymore,_ she thought idly, and then she squashed that thought like a used cigarette butt. _He will get better, he will!_

Faye had moved her Redtail from one parking lot to another when she saw her target. Once again, he fit the hacker/gamer type she'd been picking up lately: a total dweeb with bad skin and ill-fitting, all black clothes. Idly she wondered why they ever ventured out and away from their computers, if they loved them so much. Faye had a fleeting thought about Ed when a bullet whizzed past her ear.

"Gah!" Faye shrieked as she ducked and covered behind a postal box. These damned kids usually didn't carry a gun. She took a peek from behind her cover when she saw the back of her target as he ran down the street, his black trench coat fluttering behind him. Faye hopped to her feet and ran in her high heels with the exotic grace taught to her by a long-dead drag queen, a 300-pound she-male named, oddly enough, _Pixie_. She could almost hear his/her shrill voice in her ear, _Shake it, baby girl, shaaaaaaaaake it! _And then, as Faye had closed the distance to about 15 feet, the unthinkable happened.

The heel of her right boot came off.

Faye's knee and ankle twisted painfully, but in a move that Spike might have envied, she launched herself into the air like a combination of Wonder Woman and Supergirl, firing her gun into the left buttock of her bounty. When Faye was sure that she'd hobbled the kid, she tucked herself into a ball and rolled into a somersault, scraping hell out of every bit of skin exposed by her abbreviated outfit. Both knees of her stockings were ripped out, taking a good bit of her actual flesh knees with them. Faye skidded to a halt near her bounty, who was lying on the ground, howling in pain.

"Jesus Christ, lady! What is your problem?"

Faye wobbled to her feet, keeping her gun on her target. "My problem? I just blew out my last pair of stockings." She waved her gun at the kid. "Get up. And give me your boots. I hate having lopsided heels."

Spike was sitting in his room, his eyes closed. Ein was nowhere to be found. Spike was glad for the respite in therapy, but he found that he missed talking to the little dog. He kept thinking about what Ein told him, how he'd set up all the paperwork regarding Mao and Jet. He hadn't even known that the dog was capable of such things. When they'd first found Ein, he was collateral in a bounty hunt, and Ein then became the only reward out of that bounty when Spike had to make the choice between catching Ein as he fell from the sky, or nabbing the bounty. At the time, he'd snapped, "This is why I hate critters!" feeling like he'd gotten the short end of the stick.

These days, he felt like he'd made the better choice.

Gads, his head hurt. Spike pulled off the watch cap and absently rubbed his head. His fingertips trailed over the network of scars. Barleigh had taken great pleasure in telling Spike about the brain surgery to remove the initial hematoma, where they'd not only put a probe up his femoral artery in an attempt to blast it from one direction, but also cut his head open from ear to ear and pulled down his face like a ski mask ultimately removing a portion of his skull and temporarily housing it in his own abdomen. Sometimes Spike gently touched his skull to make sure they actually put the damned bone back. Just thinking about it made the pain worse, but Spike was reticent about taking the Percoset he had. First, he didn't want to be beholden to the painkillers, the way that lame doctor seemed to be, and secondly, Spike felt a little justified in punishing himself. He had a lot of things to punish himself for, and the list grew longer and longer every time he thought about it.

_And add pissing off a dog to the list. Christ, man, what kind of person pisses off a dog? Especially one that . . ._Spike's train of thought was stopped by the thud and clang of Faye returning to the ship. He hadn't seen her in a while, and he figured that teasing her a bit would cheer him up. He took one of his sticks and stumped out to the common area. Before he arrived, he heard Jet exclaiming over something.

"What the hell did you do to yourself, Faye?"

"Caught a bounty."

Spike rounded the corner to see Faye looking like she'd been dragged a couple of miles down a gravel road. She had abrasions and bruises all over her legs and arms, and was bleeding from both knees and elbows, and had a good case of road rash on her forehead. Faye looked up at Spike, and her expression turned to dismay. _Forgot my cap_, thought Spike. _Stupid._

"You need to be patched up."

"I'm fine."

Spike spoke up. "T-take a shhow-rr. G-get c-cleaned up."

Faye glanced away, but she said, "That sounds like a great idea."

Jet concurred, saying that he'd get the first aid kit and help her dress her wounds once she got out. Faye began to stomp down the hallway towards her room, and Spike looked down at her feet, which were shod in the bounty's oversized hob-nailed jackboots. "N-nice b-b-ootsh."

Faye came up short, and it looked like she caught her breath. Spike was giving her a lopsided grin. She returned the smile, and said, "Thanks," and continued down the hall.

Jet had found the first-aid kit and was pulling out items when Spike said, "Ll d-do it." Jet looked up at him, and Spike waved his left hand a bit.

"Um, yeah. Need to work your left hand? Well, okay then," said Jet, rising from the couch and rubbing his head. "It looks well-stocked, so you should be set." And Jet turned and walked out of the room, and Spike, puzzled, watched him go. Spike then sat on the couch and waited for Faye. He must have dozed off – something he now did with regularity – because the next thing he knew, he felt someone sit on the couch next to him. He opened his eyes to see Faye trying to twist her arm over so that she could put antiseptic on her elbow.

Spike gently took the bottle from her fingers and turned her arm so that he could put the ointment on. She hissed when he applied the ointment to her injured elbow. His eyes flashed up to hers, and he said, "Shorry."

"It's okay. I can do this, Spike."

"Sho c'n I." He carefully bandaged one elbow, and started working on the other. "T-tell m-me . . ." Faye had to fight to not finish the sentences for him. She waited in silence, willing Spike to get out the words, because she knew that he had to relearn how to talk, and she couldn't do it for him. " . . . b-boun-t-ty."

Faye smiled, and she told him all about how she had to chase her perp down the street and her heel coming off her boot. Spike laughed at her story as he continued his ministrations. _When he's laughing, he sounds like himself. I must remember that,_ thought Faye sadly. Soon, he was carefully making sure that the abrasion on her forehead was clean. "D-d-on't w-want shh-c-carsh."

Faye bit her lip. "No scars, no." She closed her eyes for a moment and said softly, "I'm glad you're back, Spike."

She could feel his cool hand on her face as he applied antiseptic. "Me t-too." After a few more minutes, he said, "Lll d-done."

He began to put away the leftover bandages and gather up the trash, when Faye said, "Spike?" Spike looked up at her. Faye leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, and for a moment, he could smell her soap and her shampoo, and the scent of fresh antiseptic. "Thanks," said Faye.

Spike, with a small smile, nodded in return.

Back in the shadows of a corridor, Jet turned away, looking for cigarettes.


	10. Wounds Are All I'm Made Of

_My energy is spent at last_

_And my armor is destroyed_

_I have used up all my weapons_

_And I'm helpless and bereaved_

_**Wounds are all I'm made of** – Blue Oyster Cult_

* * *

The main lights were out, and the room was only illuminated by four sets of safety lights, barely enough to see each other by. The din of the barking dogs, reverberating off the concrete, tile, and Plexiglas was nearly deafening, and the only dogs who were not barking could barely hear each other.

_What the hell is going on?_

_Shut up, Fang! _shouted Ranger. Never had Kid seen Ranger be so completely in control. The image was so different from the passive, confused dog that Kid had always seen before. _Pay attention! They're coming . . ._

_Who? Who is?_

_Listen! They'll be here soon. They'll break the locks on all these boxes. When they do, the four of us will stick together and run out in all the commotion. Kid, you know the best way out of here, right?_

_If the plans I saw were correct, yes, I think._

_Follow Kid. He's going to lead us out of here. **Don't **let any of the humans get a hold of you. Whether it's a coat or an activist. Don't let them get you._

_What do you mean, not the activists? They're coming to take us out of here, aren't they?_ Fang was pacing now. Kid could see moving flashlights and hear the sound of human voices.

Ranger put a paw on his divider. _Fang, listen to me. The only way to get out of this is to escape. We need to escape all the humans and get completely away, away from here, away from where humans can get us. Because if they catch us, we're either dead, or we get put back in the box. _

Blood piped up_. The coats will never stop until you're dead, Fang. _

Ranger continued._ He's right. They'll keep gassing you, or find some other new experiment for you. They'll keep implanting nano-chips in Kid or any other dog that fits their profile for testing. It has to stop. We have to get away from **all** of them. Do you understand? Use your strength, use your teeth if you must, Fang. We need your help to get out of here! Get ready, now._

All four dogs crouched in wait. Fang started a low growl, and his paws were twitching. _The boars are replaced by bipeds this time. The paddock is wide open. I am going to win this contest. No survivors. All of them are Mac, and no more of this shit. _Kid looked at Fang in confusion. He wasn't sure if Fang meant to have that overheard. Kid hoped, based on what little of Fang's past that he knew, that Fang wouldn't lose complete control. So much of their escape hinged on them being able to count on Fang's strength.

There were quite a few activists, dressed in black, many with stockings or ski masks on their faces, some even wearing camouflage greasepaint. Two of them had come down their row and had broken the locks or simply smashed the Plexiglas. Most of dogs were cowering, allowing the humans to take them away. One human finally broke open Fang's box, and he leapt out with a roar. Finally all four boxes were open, and the other dogs jumped to the ground. Kid, intending to run to Fang, was suddenly snatched by human hands.

_Fang! Help me!_

Fang snarled and snapped at the human's hands, narrowly missing taking a chunk out of Kid. The human released the Corgi, and Blood jumped to Kid's side.

_C'mon, Kid, get us out of here!_

The four dogs ran through the door that they had been carried through so many times before. The main lights were out in the hallway, too, but the safety lights continued their eerie glow. Kid made an abrupt turn to the left, and the others followed.

_This way! Hurry!_

There was chaos everywhere. Not only did the activists break in, but the lab workers were running around too, trying to get the animals rounded up. The police and animal control, who had been tipped off to this event tonight, had also arrived, adding to the frenzy. Everyone was trying to grab animals left and right. Not only were there dogs, but rabbits, apes, goats, birds, and cats. However, all of the animals, save four, ran only from their pursuers, not with a destination in mind. Kid skirted through the crowds easily, staying on his path. The larger dogs had a harder time because of their size. Fang had to be used several times as a battering ram.

_We're almost outside!_

Blood leapt at the crash bar, and the four dogs burst through the door and into a side yard. Kid had never been outside before. His nose was assailed by so many different and new scents. The little dog had been bred in a laboratory and had spent his entire life in cages and on tile floors, and now that he was outside for the first time, the earthen ground was so alien under his paws.

_Blood, what's this . . ?_

_Never** mind**, Kid, get to the fence!_

There was a chain-link fence at the far side of the yard. Fang threw himself at it, growling.

_Not that way! Dig! Dig! Hurry!_

The dogs began digging furiously, and after a short time, had managed a scrape deep enough for Kid to wiggle under. Then he began to dig furiously from the other side.

"Fred! Over here! There's four of 'em out here!"

Kid froze in fear. _The humans . . . _

_Keep **digging**, Kid! I'm not gonna let no fucking coats get us now!_ Fang turned, growling, teeth bared. He crouched into an attack position, daring the human to come closer. He barked, twice, and scooted closer to the human. _Fucking coats!_ Then Fang's eyes went wide with recognition: it was one of the coats who put him in the tank with the gas. But at the same time, it was Mac. Mac, who had beaten him bloody, starved him, and forced him to fight for his life against savage boars, and receiving no reward for surviving other than gunpowder-laced rotten food, and more beatings.

_Mac. Mac, you fucking son of a bitch. You should have stayed dead. Now, I get to kill you twice._

Rage took over, and the Newfoundland leapt at the human, knocking him to the ground. Fang lunged at the human's face and easily tore through the flesh, down to the bone. Screams and the scent of blood filled the air.

Kid gasped. _Fang! Don't!_

By now Ranger was halfway under the fence. _He can't hear you, Kid! The dog's taken back over! Keep digging!_ Ranger squeezed the rest of the way through, and kept moving dirt to let Blood under the fence.

Kid couldn't move. His eyes were transfixed on Fang and the human, which now resembled a bloody pile of rags. Gore dripped from Fang's head as he lifted it to the sky, howling._ Fang! Stop it! Hurry! Get under the fence!_

Fang shook his head, and then looked over to Kid. Kid could no longer see any glimpse of the intelligence that used to be in Fang's eyes. Now those eyes were completely taken over by pain, fear, and longing. Then, there was a glimmer of recognition. _Kid. It's over. Get out of here. I'm done. Finally done._ Fang's head turned to a noise. Kid looked too: a coat with a gun. Fang reared back to lunge, and there was the most horrible noise. A terrible smell filled the air.

Fang flipped over, fell to the ground and did not move again.

_**FANG!**_

By now Blood had made it under the fence. _Run, Kid, **RUN**!_

_. . . But – Fang!_

_Fang's out of it now, move your ass! **Hurry**! _

Kid took one last look, and then joined the other two dogs, running across the field into the night.

Spike couldn't sleep. Once again, he'd been deprived of his favorite dreams of the extremely agile and experimental Esperanto-speaking women in brass bikinis and high-heeled boots because of another headache. A bad one, this time. _Another side effect_, he thought idly, as he limped down the hall from his room on bare feet. His feet were cold, but he didn't like the feel of shoes and he was unsure in socks on the slippery floor. And slippers made him look like a codger, and it was bad enough the he felt like one.

He made it to the couch and sat down with a sigh. In one hand, he held a vintage and battered lighter, confiscated back from Faye and their old and private game of keep-away. He also held a deck of smokes that he had found underneath some socks in one of his dresser drawers. He had no idea how old they were, and he had a feeling that they were past their prime, but they were dried leaves rolled in thin paper that he could set on fire and fill his lungs with the smoke. _Good enough._

But when he finally shook one out of the pack and lit it, Spike was dismayed to find that the taste was not so much nicotine as it was a carload of assholes_. I think I'll swap these out with Faye's stash_, he thought idly, when he began to hear the soft whimper of a dog.

"Ein?" Spike looked around, and in a corner, saw the sleeping form of Ein, but he was running furtively in his sleep. Frowning, Spike got up, leaving his excuse for a cigarette in the ashtray. He made his way over to Ein and clumsily sat on the floor next to the agitated, but sleeping, dog. Spike reached out to pet the dog's head, and when his fingers touched the dog's fur, he felt a sensation not unlike a head rush from getting up too fast, and his mind flashed on an image he was completely confused by: a dark room, with the barks of many dogs, and then a gunshot. Spike gasped and drew his hand away.

Ein stirred suddenly. _Blood?_

Spike was confused. _No. It's Spike. There's no blood._

Ein shook his head. _Dreaming._

_Ein? What blood? Where?_ But the dog didn't answer, and Spike stayed where he was for a few moments. Then he gingerly reached out with a hand and scratched Ein's ear. No images flashed into Spike's mind, for which he was grateful. Ein stretched in sleepy agitation, but did not speak again.

Kid had finally made it to the top of the hill, were Ranger and Blood sat, panting. Kid flopped onto his side. Ranger gave him a nudge.

_We have to keep moving,_ said Ranger. _They're still close._

_I can't,_ Kid whined. _I'm so tired, and your legs are longer than mine._

_I'm sorry. We just have to go a little further._

_You said that on the last hill._

_I know, Kid. But we have to keep moving._

_Fang –_

_Enough of that shit, let's go. I smell water._ Ranger leapt to his feet and took off down the hill. Blood got to his feet as well.

_Blood?_

_Yeah, Kid?_

_What are we going to do?_

_Do? For right now we're following Ranger. And not talking about Fang. It's over for him. We're still going. C'mon, let's move._

The two dogs trotted down the hill after Ranger, who stood in a small valley looking up at the sky. _I keep hearing noise,_ said Ranger. _And it's not thunder. This way. Into the trees._

The dogs ran into a copse of trees that had a lot of brambly undergrowth. The larger dogs jumped through with ease, but Kid had to struggle and crawl under branches. Again Ranger stopped and looked up towards the sky, listening. Kid could now hear it too. It was a continuous rumbling noise that kept getting louder. In the distance, dogs were barking.

**_Fuck!_** snapped Ranger. _How the hell do they keep following us? And I know that noise. I've heard it before._

_So have I,_ said Blood, panting. _I think it's . . . oh **SHIT!**_

Kid looked up to see the trees swaying violently, as if they were caught up in a strong wind. Above the trees, in an open patch of sky, a large machine hovered.

_What is that?_ cried Kid.

_It's a helicopter! **Run!**_ Ranger took off deeper into the trees. Blood started to follow, but the undergrowth was too thick for Kid to fight his way through. Blood snatched Kid up by the scruff and took off, running after Ranger.

_We have to lose them_, yelled Ranger.

_They must be tracking us somehow,_ replied Blood.

Ranger leapt over a patch of brambles and landed awkwardly near a riverbank. _Oh, **fuck**, how could I have been so **stupid**! We're **CHIPPED**, goddamnit, they're tracking us because we've got fucking GPS chips!_

_What are GPS chips? And what was that . . . helicopter?_ Kid cried.

_Shut up, Kid, hold still. Get in the water!_ Blood jumped into the shallows with Kid still in his mouth. Ranger came close, panting, but concentrating intently on Kid. _Blood, I see it. It's in his scruff. Right in your mouth. Bite through._

_**WHAT?**_

_Bite through it, take out that chunk of skin. And so help me, Kid, if you **fucking** make a sound I will tear out your throat myself. Do it **NOW**, Blood!_

Without warning, Blood bit through Kid's skin, removing fur and flesh. Kid dropped into the water, bleeding, but too terrified to make a single sound.

_Spit it out in the water, Blood. It'll float downstream. I see yours now. Hold still._ And Ranger lunged at Blood's rear flank, taking out a piece of flesh. Ranger spit out fur and blood repeatedly. _Goddammit, Blood, why do you have to have such long hair? It'll take me a week to get it out from my teeth._

_Where's yours, Ranger? I'll get it._

_In the scruff. Right where Kid's was. Hurry._

Blood ripped through Ranger's scruff, removing the same size piece of skin that he had from Kid. He spit it out in the water, and watched as the piece moved downstream. _Now what?_

Kid, meanwhile, had collapsed from fear and pain in the shallow water. Blood ran from his neck and drifted downstream. Ranger nuzzled Kid for a moment, and then said, _First, we better help Kid get some mud on those wounds. It'll help stop the bleeding. _

Blood and Ranger managed to get the bleeding stopped. Kid remained silent and still. _C'mon, grab Kid. It's time to move upstream. Now they'll follow those GPS units downstream. Let's go._

Blood gingerly picked up Kid in his mouth. Kid did not complain or cry, and his fear was now being replaced by exhaustion. The dogs began moving upstream in the shallow water, at a slower pace now. They were still under cover of the trees, and the sounds of the dogs and the helicopter drifted away from them, in the other direction.

_Good call, Ranger._

_Thanks, but goddamn, that did hurt. Is Kid okay?_

_I think so. He's smaller and younger, so he'll probably hurt worse. And then . . . you know._

_Yeah. I'm real sorry about Fang._

_Me too. He was a good dog._

_One of the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable now._

_I wish you'd give up that goddamned fox-hunting shit, Ranger._

_Don't knock it 'til you tried it, you fucking sheep-herder._

_Ain't nothing wrong with sheep-herding, asshole._

Ranger chortled. _No. There isn't. Maybe we'll see some cows. See if Kid can do some herding himself._

_Yeah. Hear that, Kid? We'll test the theory of 'nurture versus nature'._

Kid stirred. _What?_

_Never mind, Kid. Get some rest._

Ranger gave Kid a small head-butt. _Yeah, Kid. Get some rest. You did good._

The dogs moved on again, and the moon began to rise. Kid remained quiet, almost asleep, wondering about the unspeakable and uneatable that Ranger kept talking about. And where Fang was now.


	11. Sometimes Everything is Wrong

_When __the __day__ is __long __and __the __night __the __night__ is __yours __alone__,  
__when __you're __sure __you've __had __enough__ of __this __life __well __hang__ on.  
__Don't __let __yourself__ go, __everybody __cries __and __everybody __hurts __sometimes__.  
_**_Sometimes _****_everything_****_ is _****_wrong_**_. – REM_

* * *

After eight weeks of doing his own physical therapy on the Bebop, Spike had to pay a visit to the clinic where Barleigh reigned for a check-up. Spike had actually hoped to see Thompson as well, because she had been very kind to him and acted as a buffer between himself and Barleigh. That day, Jet had accompanied Spike in the taxi to the hospital, but left Spike on his own to visit the doctor himself. Faye, of course, was missing, chasing down yet another bounty – lately Spike had to tease her about leaving some for him for when he got better.

Spike carried one of his sticks with him, mostly for balance around a lot of people. This was actually his first trip off the Bebop since he returned to it eight weeks ago, and he felt skittish being outside. _A touch of agoraphobia, what a nice addition to the litany of current ills,_ mused Spike, as he approached the sliding doors of the clinic where he was scheduled to meet Barleigh. As he approached the desk, his prayers were answered: Thompson and her pretty face and her chestnut hair were at the nurses' station, furiously typing into an electronic chart. He sidled up next to her and cleared his throat.

Thompson turned and her warm smile lit up her face. "Mr. Spiegel!"

"H'lo."

She grabbed him in an impulsive hug, which probably did more wonders for Spike than she would ever realize, but it was shortly ruined by the presence of Barleigh, "Oh, it's you. Back for another round of love, physical therapy style?"

Spike released Thompson and raised an eyebrow at Barleigh. "Eight-week checkup."

"Has it been that long? It seems just yesterday we tossed you out on your ungrateful ass. Unfortunately, Thompson here continued to worry about you long after we fired you out of here, and it was all _Spike_ this, and _Mr. Spiegel_ that. So, where's Sweetcheeks?"

"Which one?"

Barleigh actually chuckled at that. "I meant your female companion but of course I could also mean your strapping bald friend. That's the joy of terms like _Sweetcheeks_."

"C-can we get on with this ex-sham or are you going to act like a prat all day?"

"Oh, goodness, the student has surpassed the teacher in snark. Fine. Follow me. You too, Thompson. Take notes!"

Despite Barleigh's annoying behavior, he was actually a rather good doctor, and extremely thorough – although Spike might have argued that forcing Thompson to do a hernia test on him was stretching it a bit. However, Thompson had such a charming blush that Spike ceased to mind. Barleigh was concerned about the marked difference in strength that still existed between Spike's left and right sides. "Not that you haven't recovered by leaps and bounds, but that amount of weakness is still troubling to me. I don't suppose it would be wise to return to your previous occupation yet."

Spike sighed. "I s-shupposhe not."

"What about your pain?"

"T-tolerable. I get headaches, though."

"That's to be expected. However, those painkillers won't do you any good in the bottle."

"I don't want to t-take them."

"You prefer to punish yourself, then?" Spike didn't answer. "I don't know what kind of penance you feel you have to complete. I'm not your priest. Or anyone else's, thank God. The whole celibacy thing is overrated. However, managing your pain is part of your recovery. I just happen to believe in the magic of modern pharmaceuticals." Barleigh swallowed a couple of his Vicodin to make his point.

"I'll m-manage my pain my own way."

Barleigh studied Spike for a moment. Spike was unsure of just how much this Barleigh knew or didn't know about the circumstances of how Spike got to this hospital, and Spike preferred to leave it that way. Thompson might have been a different story, but he figured that Thompson, while pretty to look at, wouldn't quite be able to wrap her head around someone like him. Or precisely how he got here. She'd probably have a _kanipsa_, as his mother would say.

Suddenly, there was a voice in his head, clear as a bell: _For a Catholic woman, your mother used a lot of Yiddish terms._

Spike nearly slid off the table in surprise and shock. In fact, he must have registered something on his face because Barleigh was looking at him even more intently, and Thompson was asking him to do things like smile and raise his eyebrows. Spike gave a shudder and said, "I'm f-fine, I'm n-not having another shtroke."

Barleigh said, "Indulge us anyway."

Spike was finally released after another battery of tests, which all seemed to say he was within normal ranges for whatever they were testing for. Jet returned with the cab, and Barleigh gave him a brief rundown of Spike's condition; however, when Barleigh was about to tell Jet about Spike's "episode", he caught Spike's eye, and did not reveal anything to Jet.

All the way back to the Bebop, Spike listened for that voice again, but nothing was forthcoming. He felt pretty sure that it was Ein, but how could the dog talk to him over such a great distance? Confused, Spike was quiet, waiting for an opportunity to see if Ein would be willing to talk to him again.

But for now, Spike was spending his days alone, practicing _katas. _Ein had stayed quiet since the argument in the kitchen. If his voice had been the one in Spike's head while he was visiting Dr. Barleigh, Ein wasn't saying. He would only occasionally sit to watch Spike as he continued regaining his strength and balance. Sometimes, Spike would watch the dog sleep. Lately, Ein had been sleeping a lot more, and it seemed to Spike that he slept very fitfully: his paws constantly twitched, and his mouth and ears never seemed to stop moving. If Ein was startled awake, he would mutter something about the "uneatable" or the "unspeakable" that made no sense to Spike. Another time, Ein was awake, but staring off into space. Spike had snapped his fingers in front of the dog's nose, and Ein shouted _blood!_ once again, but when Spike asked about the blood, Ein refused to elaborate.

Spike almost found that he missed the dog's company. Ein was a rough taskmaster, and Spike was not disciplined enough to work himself out to the extent that Ein had. It was also strange to speak aloud to no one. Faye had even been giving him grief about "the rain in Spain", whatever the hell that meant, so Spike had taken to speaking softly to himself either in the shower, or in the tower far away from the others.

Today, a few days after his checkup, Spike was shirtless and barefoot, his abdominal scars still fresh-looking and puckered. Spike balanced on his left foot, wobbled only a bit, and gave a mighty kick with his right foot. He then brought his right foot back to his left knee without having to put it on the ground for balance.

_Not bad._

Spike wobbled a bit more, surprised by the dog's words. "You're talking to me, again?"

_You're speaking much better, too._

"Thanks."

_Did you miss me?_

_How can I miss you when you don't go away?_

Ein rolled his eyes._ Use your words, please. Anyway, don't let me stop you. Jet was a bit concerned because you've been in here all day._

"Just trying to get better." Spike resumed his kicking exercise. Ein watched in silence. The human _was _getting better. His balance was much improved. He hardly needed the sticks anymore, and he only limped or slurred his words when he was tired. Unfortunately, he still got tired easily.

Spike's appearance was much improved as well. His hair, while not grown back to his usual mop-like length, now covered his skull and hid the scars. The interesting change on his hair, though: Spike's hair had grown a sparse sprinkling of grey at the temples, which amused the hell out of Ein as well as Jet and Faye. Spike, however, found this to be an even bigger insult than the rest of his injuries, and he spent a good amount of time fretting over the change in the bathroom mirror. Jet merely grumbled that he was lucky that his hair was growing back as well as it was. Spike briefly considered putting hair dye on it, but he would probably need Faye's help for that, and that wasn't something he felt inclined to ask her for help on.

Mostly, though, his improvement was simply because he worked hard at it. Ein was even impressed at how quickly Spike was restoring his faculties. _He'll be back collecting bounties in no time_, thought Ein.

Spike had now decided to move on to a turning kick, pivoting on his left foot and bringing his right leg around in a wide sideswipe. He overcorrected his balance and landed on his left buttock, making Spike exclaim, "Ow!" Ein grinned. Spike grinned back. "Laugh it up, fuzzball."

Suddenly there was a commotion outside. It sounded like Faye, but for once she wasn't cursing or yelling. It actually sounded like she was laughing. The dog and the man looked at each other, and Spike shrugged. Both of them got up and walked to the common area, where Faye was dancing around the couch.

"I did it! I **did** it!"

Jet came into the room then, clippers in hand. "You did what, Faye?"

"I paid off my debt! It's all paid off now! I'm a free woman!" Faye cackled with glee.

"You **did**? That's incredible!" Jet caught up Faye in an impromptu hug. "Did you hear that, Spike?"

"Yes."

Faye danced across the room and squeezed Spike's arm, eyes twinkling. "I'm so happy! That nightmare is finally **over**!"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "So we'll finally be rid of you, then?"

The light went out of Faye's eyes and dismay crossed her face. Even Jet's face fell.

_Spike! You piece of shit! Don't do that to her! All she wants to hear is that you're proud of her!_

Spike caught the dog's face out of the corner of his eye. Ein stood with his teeth bared. Spike relented. "I'm sorry, Faye. I shouldn't have said that. You worked so hard. You did good, Faye. G-good for you."

Faye didn't seem convinced that Spike was sincere. She let go of his arm and looked away. Jet, however, came to the rescue. "I think this calls for a celebration. How about we get off this barnacle breeder and take a night out?"

Faye brightened again. "Oh, yes! That sounds great!"

Jet continued, "It'll be my treat. Let's all go."

It was Spike's turn to look dismayed. _All of us?_

Faye countered, "Not on your life, Jet. I'm paying. No more owing anything to anyone.

You're coming along, aren't you, Spike?"

Spike's instinct was to say no. He had only been off the ship once since his return to it weeks ago, and Spike felt fairly certain that he had a panic attack while at the clinic, which, for him anyway, explained that voice in his head. In an attempt to explain why he didn't want to go, Spike went through a number of litanies in his head, trying to find an excuse: he was tired, which he was, but he didn't want to see people who might remember him from before, and mostly, he didn't want to look foolish. It was bad enough having to go to the hospital being half the man that he used to be, the great Spike Spiegel, the supposed heir of the Red Dragons, limping on a cane and slurring his words like an old man. But the idea of going out in a social situation frankly scared him half to death.

_Go._

Spike's eyes went to the dog.

_She wants you to. _

_Ein . . ._

_And you do need to get off this ship._

_I . . . I'm afraid._

_This isn't about you, it's about her. It means so much to her._

Finally Spike took a breath, and said, "Okay. I'll go, but on two conditions. You're buying me a steak, and a single-malt scotch the size of my head."

Faye's smile returned to her face. "Absolutely. Oh, I can't wait. I'm first in the shower! And you better wear something other than that horrible rumpled suit of yours!" And she squeezed his arm once more, and danced away, leaving the men to look at each other.

Spike sighed and closed his eyes. "We're going someplace high-end, aren't we?"

"Looks that way."

"Shit. I don't even know if I have a goddamned monkey suit anymore."

_Well, you better figure something out. She's now a woman with a purpose. She'll flay you both if you keep her waiting._

_Thanks a lot, Ein._

_Anytime, Spike._

A short while later, Spike stood, freshly showered, staring into his meager closet. That "rumpled suit", the one that Faye hated so, but was so damned comfortable, must have been in a landfill by now. Spike only vaguely remembered it being sliced off him both by Vicious and the hospital staff.

_Like it was worth saving._

Spike nearly jumped. His eyes moved over his room until they rested on the dog.

_Damnit, Ein, what are you doing in here?_

_I **was** sleeping._

_You sleep a lot._

_I'm tired. I'm an old dog._

_How old are you?_

_In dog years? More than you can count, cowboy._

_Fuck you, dog._

_I don't think so. There are laws against that in most parts of the universe, you know._

Spike chuckled and returned his focus to the closet. He shoved some shirts over to one side, uncovered a moth-eaten jumpsuit from another century, and came across a garment bag. Frowning, he unzipped it to find a designer suit inside, a suit of dark navy blue, made of light summer-weight wool. Also inside was a crisp shirt that smelled of factory starch, and an expensive-looking silk tie of dark burgundy was draped over the slacks hanger. He knew the suit was his, but where had it come from? Spike racked his brain for a moment, trying to recall the suit's origins, and then he remembered.

_Julia._

Long ago, she had decided he needed a suit to compete with Vicious, and so she had bought him this. He had never worn it, preferring to stay in his comfortable blue jeans and worn Bruce Lee t-shirt, along with his bombardier jacket with the sheepskin collar. Vicious was the well-dressed one of the group. The joke was that Vicious dressed like the vicar, and Spike was the gravedigger.

_Julia was the widow at the gravesite, _Spike mused. _She was the woman who cried on the outside, but internally could barely contain her glee at her new-found freedom._

_That has **got** to be the most cynical thing I have ever heard, _Ein replied.

_It was a cynical time._

_And now?_

Spike didn't answer. He pulled the suit out of the closet and removed it from the garment bag. How had he managed to hang on to this? He couldn't remember. He laid the suit on his bed, looking at it. He then recalled that he did wear it once. For her. Then it went back into the garment bag and remained there.

_It didn't stay on for too long, if I remember correctly. It's a miracle it didn't get wrinkled,_ Spike chuckled. He realized then that for the first time, the memory of Julia brought no pain. And no desire to remain in the past.

After donning the shirt and the slacks, Spike managed to find a good pair of shoes and spit-shined them. He tied the tie in a perfect Windsor knot without even looking in the mirror. The jacket went on perfectly, but there was something in the inside pocket. Spike reached in to find a pair of cufflinks, each with a brown-red stone. _To match your eyes_, Julia had said. _Well, only one eye now,_ thought Spike. So he shot his cuffs and refastened them in the French style, adding the cufflinks. He smoothed out his lapels and took a look in the mirror. _Not bad._

_Not bad by half, Spike. The man is handsome._ Spike turned to look at the dog, only to see that he'd fallen asleep again. Spike leaned over to scratch Ein's ears, and as he touched Ein's fur, it happened again. It seemed to Spike that he was able to see Ein's thoughts or memories or something, but this time, Ein seemed to dreaming of a time when he was a puppy. Spike got a definite feeling of warmth of other little furry bodies and an aura that was particularly maternal. Spike smiled at the thought, and then left the room.

The common area was still deserted. Not wanting to sit on the filthy old sofa, Spike stood, waiting. Presently Jet appeared, wearing his lightweight tan suit, with his matching fedora, which he whizzed across the room like a Frisbee at Spike.

Spike grinned and caught the hat. "Nice one, cowboy."

"I think you're supposed to call me Odd Job."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know." Jet returned the grin, and then held out a wallet to Spike. "Your wallet. The hospital gave it me."

"I was wondering where that was." Spike took the wallet and peeked inside. "I don't remember carrying this many woolongs."

"You weren't."

"Gee, thanks, Dad."

"Give 'em hell, Son. Nice suit. Where the hell you'd pick up that?"

Spike shrugged. "Had it a while. C'mere. Your tie is crooked." Jet came over to Spike and let him work on his tie, which Jet had clumsily tied into a four-in-hand. "Shit. Now I'm screwing it up. Turn around." Jet did, and Spike reached over his shoulders to tie Jet's tie from behind as if it were his own. He had just run the rabbit around the tree when a distinctly feminine voice rang out.

"Hello."

Both men turned their heads to the sound of the voice. Before them stood a creature of grace and dignity, of elegance and refinement.

It was Faye.

She was wearing a gown neither of them had seen before. It was red as blood and as scarlet as all the sins that even Spike never had the nerve to commit. The bodice was held up by thin straps, and was cut high across her bosom, hugging her curves down to her waist. The satin was delicately beaded in an intricate pattern. The skirt, made of a lighter fabric that Spike didn't know the name of, flowed from her waist down to her ankles. She wore a long scarf made of the same fabric wrapped around her slender neck, and her hair was piled in curls on the top of her head.

Never had Spike seen Faye in anything so demure in comparison to what she usually wore.

He had never seen her look so beautiful.

Jet was the first to recover. "You look exquisite, my dear."

Faye grinned and dropped into a mock curtsey. "Thank you, kind sir."

Spike stood stock still, hands still on Jet's tie, unmoving until Jet elbowed him lightly, but still painfully, in the gut.

"Do you want to finish that tie there, Spike?"

Spike drew his gaze away from Faye. "Sorry."

Faye wasn't ready to let him off the hook. Cocking a fist on her hip, she challenged,

"Like what you see, Spiegel?"

Spike had finished Jet's tie and turned to face Faye. "Yes, I do. Very much."

Not expecting such a direct answer, Faye dropped her gaze and played with a curl of hair at the nape of her neck. "The car should be here."

"The car?"

"Yes, I hired a car. Did you think we were all going to pile in the Swordfish?"

Jet shrugged. "It's your night, Faye. You call the shots."

"Then let's go." Smiling, she hooked one arm through Jet's, and the other through Spike's. The three of them left the ship and into the car that was, in fact, awaiting them.

"So where are we going?" Jet asked.

"The _Beau Rivage_," replied Faye. "It's been a while since I've been there. But I remember they had a succulent steak and the best single-malt scotch in town. Hopefully they have something that appeals to even your fine palate, Spike."

The car sped through the night across town. The three of them shared jokes and laughed the whole way. The car pulled up to the valet, and Jet knocked the uniformed man out of the way to hand Faye out of the car. She waited for Spike's arm, however, and the three of them were soon seated in a revolving restaurant near a large dance floor. As usual, Faye commanded attention, and she had shortly sent off the waiter with an order for three single malt scotches, straight up and at least 20 years old, and three of the finest prime ribs, preferably still mooing when they hit the table. Spike and Jet both grinned at her audacity, and then she excused herself from table. In perfect fashion, the men rose to see her off.

They watched her retreating form, and Jet remarked, "Not bad. We might be able learn how to be gentlemen yet."

"A dance floor, though. What is it with women and dancing?"

"Whatever Faye wants, she gets." Jet looked across the floor to the orchestra that was just taking their places. He then studied Spike. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

"I didn't even think about that. You must be exhausted, working out all day, and then us dragging you out. I was only thinking about Faye."

"I'll manage." The scotch had arrived, but Spike let it stay where it was. "You must think a lot of Faye."

"I do. I'm happy for her, closing out her debt like that."

"Why is it that you two didn't hook up while I was gone?"

Jet looked away, studying the orchestra. His jaw worked for a moment. "It would have been for the wrong reasons."

Spike frowned at the older man, who appeared to be working through . . . something. Then Spike saw something red out of the corner of his eye.

"Am I interrupting?"

Jet rose and pulled out Faye's chair. "Just waiting for you, and letting the scotch breathe."

"Ah, lovely. Shall we propose a toast?" Faye smiled and raised her glass. "To Spike's recovery."

Jet countered, "To Faye's financial freedom."

Spike raised his glass. "To Jet's cooking, may he actually learn how."

Laughter. "Salud." "Prosit." "L'Chaim.""Mud in your eye." "The hair of the dog that bit you." "Oh for the love of Mike, just drink, fer chrissakes."

Just then, the food arrived, and the orchestra went into a swing. As predicted, the prime rib looked more like it had simply been held over the flames for a moment instead of actually cooked. There was a heated discussion over whether to start using the forks from the inside out or the outside in. Faye dared the men to hang spoons off the ends of their noses, a contest that Jet won. More scotch arrived, and soon, there was comfortable silence. Faye gazed wistfully at the dance floor, which still remained empty.

"I like coming here," she said softly. "The music they play here is a lot of the same stuff I watched my parents dance to when I was a girl."

"I suppose you'd like to dance, then?" quipped Spike.

Faye turned to Spike with a blinding smile on her face. "Yes, yes, I'd love to." Then she looked at him expectantly. Spike simply stared back, and then glanced at Jet.

"Spike, you asked the woman to dance, so go dance."

"Faye." Spike leaned in closer to her. "Don't make me do this. I have no idea how to dance."

"Don't worry," she whispered. "You'll be fine." She took his hand and the next thing Spike knew, he was walking on the dance floor with Faye on his arm. "Okay," she said, turning to him. "Put your right hand here. . ." Faye placed his hand on her waist just below her ribcage, and took his left hand in her right. "Now, don't look at my feet. Look at my eyebrows." Spike chuckled, and Faye stepped closer to him, so close that their legs were almost touching in the voluminous folds of her skirt. "I've got you. Make a small step forward with your left foot. Now bring your right foot to meet your left, and shift your weight so your left foot is free." At the same time, she had stepped back slightly with her right foot and matched it with her left foot. "Now take a small step to your left, and now rock back onto your right foot. Put your left foot back under you. Shift your weight so your right foot is free. Now, we're going to do the same thing . . . but step back just a little on your right. Meet it with your left. Now side step, rock, together. You got it. Forward, left foot."

"It's weird to move backwards."

"Try it in high heels. And don't look down. Keep looking at me."

"Tell me why I'm supposed to look at your eyebrows."

"It's easier than looking at me in the eyes."

"Who told you that?"

"The nuns did, in our dance class. In school. Looking at each other's eyes would reduce us to sinful things. Keep going. Left, together, left, rock, together. And right, two, three, and four. . ."

"Does this step have a name?"

"I learned it as the box step, but my parents called it the foxy. I like calling it the foxy boxy." The two continued the simple step pattern, as Faye delicately led the step into a slow arc.

"So, how do I make you spin?" asked Spike.

"Raise your left hand. Then rock in place while I turn." He did so, and she did a small spin under his arm and floated back into his arms. "If you want me to turn in the other direction, pull your left arm across your body a bit, like this . . ." She demonstrated the arm move, and she then spun in the other direction. Her skirt luffed up a bit as she turned, and then swirled back around her legs. "Very good."

"You're a good teacher."

"Thank you. You have now completed basic ballroom dance 101 and 104." The music changed, and a singer took a microphone. Faye and Spike were still the only ones on the dance floor.

_I've never seen you looking so lovely as you do tonight  
I've never seen you shine so bright  
I've never seen so many men ask you if you wanted to dance_

"So many men? I wonder where they are," mused Spike.

"Ha ha. You only need one man in order to dance," replied Faye.

_  
looking for a little romance  
given half a chance  
and I have never seen that dress you're wearing  
or the highlights in your hair  
they catch your eyes  
I have been blinded _

_Lady in red_

"He's singing about you," said Spike. Faye turned pink.

_  
is dancing with me (cheek to cheek)_

"Oh, wait. We're doing this wrong." Spike gently pulled Faye closer and rested his cheek against her hair. Faye nearly turned as red as her dress. Spike took a deep breath, taking in the smell of her hair, with its scented lotions and potions.

_  
_"You look beautiful tonight, Faye."

"I bought the dress with you in mind."

"Did you?"

"You always hated everything else I wore. I thought you'd like this better."

"I do."

_Lady in red  
is dancing with me cheek to cheek  
there's nobody here  
its just you and me  
its where I wanna be  
and I hardly know this beauty by my side  
I'll never forget the way you look tonight  
I never will forget the way you look tonight _

_Lady in red  
_

The music trailed off, and there was a smattering of applause. Spike and Faye pulled away from each other. Faye couldn't meet his eyes, and Spike grinned at the blush that went from her bodice to the roots of her hair.

Jet suddenly appeared at Spike's shoulder. "So are you going to dance with her all night or do I get a chance?"

Spike dropped Faye's hand. "Be my guest," he said, making his way back to the table. He was more exhausted than he realized, and his limp was becoming more pronounced. But he sat and watched as Jet and Faye waltzed, very expertly and imposingly, taking wide sweeping steps on the first beat.

Jet took a look at Spike, who appeared to be even more tired than he let on. "Spike's worn out. He was working out practically all day."

"I didn't think about that. That's a nice suit he's wearing, though. I wonder where that came from?"

"I don't know," said Jet idly. They made another turn. "I'm proud of you, Faye."

Faye lifted her eyes to his. "Are you really?"

"Of course. You had a lot of debt to work through."

"Spike seems ready to get rid of me now."

Jet frowned. "And I suppose that what Spike thinks and says is more important than what I think or say?" Faye didn't answer, but her cheeks turned pink. Biting her lip, Faye dropped her gaze again. Jet closed his eyes briefly, but continued to lead Faye gracefully in the four-step pattern.

Near the end of the song, Jet spun Faye nearly across the entire dance floor, and ended with a deep dip. The applause was greater this time, and Jet and Faye did an exaggerated bow and curtsey to the small crowd. They returned to the table, but were strangely quiet until more scotch arrived, this time with cigars. Spike declined to smoke his, but watched as Jet and Faye had a smoke ring contest. He didn't even realize that he was dozing off until he felt Jet's hand on his shoulder.

"He's turning into a pumpkin, Faye."

"We better go, then. Will you see about the car?" Faye rose and helped Spike up. She somehow managed to support Spike as they walked out while making it look like he was escorting her. _That's talent_, thought Spike idly as they piled into the hired car and sped off, back to the ship.

Suddenly Jet said, "Wake up, Spike, we're home."

A giggle from Faye. "Put your shoes on, honey, we're at Grandma's."

Spike opened his eyes and realized that he had been leaning against Faye, pillowed by her bosom with her arms around him. She giggled again. Spike rubbed his face and muttered, ". . . wasn't asleep."

"You were, too. Up and out." The three returned to the ship and Jet said his good nights. Spike nodded, and let Faye lead him down the corridor. Faye took one look over her shoulder to see Jet scowling in her direction. Then he turned his back and disappeared. Faye, still holding Spike up, walked with him towards the other sleeping corridor. As they got to her room, she let go of Spike and leaned up against her door jamb.

"I had a wonderful time tonight, Spike."

"So did I."

"You really are a good dancer."

"Thank you."

There was a long pause. A _very_ long pause.

Faye blushed again. "I had fun tonight."

"So did I," Spike repeated.

There was another long pause.

"Well, I . . . um . . . would you . . ." She made a small gesture with her head.

Spike frowned. "Are you asking me to come into your room?"

"I . . . yes."

Spike sighed. "Faye."

"It's _her_, isn't it? Julia . . ."

Suddenly Spike leaned into Faye, pinning her against the wall with his body, covering her mouth with his hand. He put his mouth right next to her ear.

"Faye."

Faye held her breath.

"Let me tell you something." He took a breath, another breath full of the scents in her hair and on her skin. "There is a reason I'm not going to follow you into your room. And that reason is **not** _Julia_. Julia is _dead_, Faye, and I'm alive, and so are you. So alive that I think I would love nothing more than to carry you into that room, remove that beautiful dress from you and molest you seven ways to Sunday. I might want you so much I think I might just be pagan. Just in case you don't believe me . . ." His hand drifted down her back, over her buttock to her thigh, which he gently moved sideways around his hip.

Faye slowly realized that as Spike was pressing her against the wall with the full length of his body, she could feel his hardness against her thigh through the thinness of the fabric of her skirt. She breathed in his fragrance, a miasma of the food and drink from the evening, of cigar smoke, of his hair lotion, and she thought, _I think I'm going to die._ She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

Spike chuckled. "Yes, I _am_ happy to see you, but, and I really don't care if you don't believe me now, I simply _cannot _do this. I am too goddamned _tired_. I would fall asleep before you even got my pants off, and that is simply not fair to you. You deserve better than that. Do you understand?" Faye nodded, her eyes still shut tight. "Goodnight, Faye." He released his grip over her mouth, cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her, gently, on the corner of her mouth. He released her, turned, and began to limp down the hallway, using the wall for support. It wasn't until he had reached his door that he heard her soft reply.

"Goodnight." Faye remained where she was for a moment, and watched Spike enter his room and close the door. She leaned her head against her door jamb for a few moments, and then softly hit it on the wall a few times, whispering to herself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Once again, she'd received the brush-off from Spike. Before, when he was leaving to meet Vicious, she managed to convince herself that he needed to finish the situation with Vicious and Julia, and then he'd be more willing to give her a chance. But now, months later, with Julia and Vicious long dead, she'd even point-blank asked him to be hers, even if just for one night, just for one hour, for even fifteen minutes, for heaven's sake. And the answer was _no_.

Faye could have told herself that he was still healing, that he was tired and weak, and he was, but she held on to the hope that Spike's willingness would be enough to take her into his arms, and she would gladly go wherever he took her and gladly receive what he was willing to give.

But what Spike was willing to give was nothing, and nothing was what she would have to receive.

Faye needed someone. And right now, the only other person available was Jet. And he was probably angry with her, but Faye summoned up what courage she had left, took off her shoes, and silently padded her way to Jet's door. Faye knocked quietly and waited. After a few moments, Jet appeared. His shirt was open to the waist, and he was carefully centering his jacket on a hanger. "Faye?"

"Jet, I . . ."

"What?" His face was expressionless, except perhaps for a faint weariness upon seeing her. "Is Spike okay?"

Faye blinked and then said, "Spike? Oh . . . he's fine. He went to bed."

"I see." Jet was finished with his jacket, but he continued to stand in the doorway. "So why are you here?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. I thought . . ."

"Spike said _no_ and so you came back here to find me."

"It's not like that."

"Explain it to me, then." But Faye couldn't. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she had no more words, so she closed her mouth. "You don't know what you want, Faye, but I know that I don't feel like being your backup."

"It's not like that!"

"The hell it isn't. You didn't want to go out tonight if Spike wasn't going along. You worked your tail off to pay down your debt so that Spike would give you some sort of accolades. Spike was the only one you cared about while I've been here this entire time. If you would give me even _half_ the regard you give to him . . ."

"Jet, please . . ."

"Jesus, Faye . . ." Jet closed his eyes. "Don't say _please_."

"I just needed somebody, Jet. Is that so wrong?"

". . ._ Needed somebody_." Jet laughed, but it was a single harsh bark. He tossed his jacket on the chair, and then grabbed Faye so roughly around the waist that she cried out. Jet pulled her to him and forced his lips against hers. Faye pushed against his chest for a moment, but then acquiesced to his ministrations, and reciprocated the kiss. Jet slid her zipper down and shucked her dress down to her ankles in one swift motion, lifting her out of the pile of fabric and laying her on his bed before she could so much as squeak. Faye responded to Jet's manhandling of her by pulling his shirt from his shoulders. Jet pinned Faye to the bed, raising up on all fours to better hold her down as he forcefully continued to kiss her, taking time to pull on her lips with his teeth. He reached down between their bodies and ripped the elastic of her string bikini underwear, thinking that she wore them, probably just bought them, especially for Spike, and not for him, which frustrated him even more. Faye grew frustrated herself when she heard the fabric of her new underwear tear, and she forcibly undid Jet's fly and shoved his pants down his hips with the same determination that he removed her dress.

There was no fabric between them now, and Jet didn't care whether she was ready for him or not, so he leaned violently into her, making her back arch as she cried out, driving her nails into the soft flesh of his upper bicep, and for a moment he couldn't decide whether to continue or slap hell out of the bitch, because, oh, those nails _hurt_.

And Jet finally realized just what he was doing to Faye, and he stopped moving altogether for a few moments, before he withdrew from her and sat near the end of the bed, looking away from her, but keeping a hand lying lightly on her ankle, probably the safest place on her he could touch at the moment.

Faye was breathless, and her eyes were wide. "Jet?" she said softly.

Jet shook his head, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Faye. I'm so sorry."

Faye was quiet for a long while, then she whispered, "Me too."

After a few moments of silence, Jet rose and went to a drawer and pulled out some soft cotton clothing items, which he handed to Faye. He then pulled on some soft-looking sleep pants and a t-shirt himself. As Faye pulled the clothing on, Jet went to her pile of discarded clothing, taking her dress and putting it on a hanger and then carefully folding the other items, laying the torn pair of underwear on top. He stood looking at the ripped article of clothing for a while, and then said, "Faye, I'm sorrier than I can say."

"Jet, don't. . ."

"I mean it. I've never manhandled a woman like that before, and it's important to me that I don't ever do that again." Jet finally looked up at Faye, but she was looking down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. He reached out and put a finger under her chin to lift it, and his heart wrenched when he saw the tiniest flinch from her. "I had no right to . . . hurt you like that."

Faye couldn't respond right away. She was still blaming herself; after all, she was the one who had come to this room looking for more or less what she'd gotten. Finally, she swallowed, and then said, "What do we do now?"

"I don't know. I . . . you can hit me, if you want."

Faye closed her eyes and chuckled grimly. "I don't want to hit you. It wasn't just you. I was . . . We . . . I . . . perhaps just chalk the past few minutes up to insanity and . . . let it go." She looked at Jet, standing just so, with her clothing over her arm, and wondered if either one of them would ever let this night _go_. Something seemed irrevocably changed, but right now, the best thing to do was to get through tonight and tomorrow would simply show up, uninvited or not. "I better go back to my room."

Jet opened his door and walked Faye all the way back to her room. Faye pushed open the door to her room, and then turned to look at Jet. His sad eyes looked back at her, and he handed her the pile of clothing that he still held. Their fingers touched again in the voluminous fabric of her dress, and they stayed that way while Faye closed her eyes for a moment. Then she turned, entered her room, and shut the door. Jet silently and briefly laid a hand on her door, and then retreated to the other side of the ship.

It would be a long time before sleep came to either one of them.

Meanwhile, Spike had entered his room and clicked on the light. Ein squinted and stretched. "Ein? What are you still doing in here?"

_Who are you, and what have you done with Spike Spiegel?_

_Ha._

_Is that a rolled-up sock in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?_

_Lay off, Ein._

_She was signed, sealed, delivered, opened and laid out for you on a silver platter, you know._

_I know._ Spike sighed wearily and began undressing.

_So the reason you're in here, undressing in front of a dog rather than, as you so eloquently put it, 'molesting her seven ways to Sunday' is because?_

_I'm **tired**, dog._

_Not **that** tired._

_She deserves better._

_She wants **you.**_

_**Jet** wants her._

_Perhaps, but he'd rather cut off his other arm than step into your territory._

_There's something between them._

_That's nothing._

_Nothing? So there **is** something?_

_Christ, Spike, they were grieving for you. Think of it as flotsam and jetsam._

_How about the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable?_

Ein sat up._ What the **hell** is **that **supposed to mean?_

_You tell me. You say it often enough in your sleep._

A pause._ Whatever. _

_Precisely. Whatever. _Spike turned off his light and rolled into bed. He was already nearly asleep when he heard Ein once more.

_She was beautiful tonight, wasn't she?_

_How do you know? You didn't see her._

_I saw her because you saw her. I saw you dancing. _

_What do you mean, you saw us dancing? How could you see that?_

_Never mind, you're just confused, Spike. Go to sleep._


	12. Quite in Vain was Hope Forever Tossed

_And all for nothing **quite in vain was hope forever tossed**  
No thoughts explained, no moments gained, all hope forever lost  
One moment's space, one moment's final fall from grace  
Burnt by fire, blind in sight, lost in ire – Procul Harum_

* * *

Kid was unsure of how far the three dogs traveled that night. He was only vaguely aware of the pain in his scruff and the unfamiliar scents in his nose. Blood very obligingly told Kid the names for each new scent: deer, grass, milkweed, and fox. Ranger had been completely silent beyond telling the other two which way to follow him. Since the incident regarding the GPS chips, Kid had been reticent about asking Ranger any more questions. Besides, Blood was better company.

_Tell me about the rabbits, Blood._

_Well, Kid,_ _or should I call you Lenny? You could call me George_, Blood replied, after a brief and odd coughing fit.

_I don't know what you're talking about, Blood._

_C'mon Lenny, don't you want to hug and squeeze the bunnies?_

_Blood! _said Kid exasperatedly

_Oh, fine, killjoy, I'm just trying to make a joke, is all. Actually, going back to your question, rabbits are good eating, but hard to catch. They run pretty damned fast._

_The ones in the boxes at the lab didn't run._

_They had nowhere to go; besides, they were hutch rabbits anyway, didn't know how to run._

_They didn't know how to run? That doesn't make any sense, Blood. Don't all animals know how to run?_

_When they're bred that much, enclosed for generations and generations in pens and cages, they get stupid._

_I was bred in a cage._

_Didn't mean you in particular, Kid, but you can see how the experiments worked better on you because you had been bred inside. You had no external influences to screw up their data. You didn't have a past life that the scientists had to work around._

_Like Fang?_

_Yeah, like Fang, Kid. Or me. Or Ranger._ Blood and Kid ambled alongside each other for a while in silence. _What did Ranger show you?_

_What do you mean?_

_Before, in the box. He looked at you that one time, right before the activists showed up, and you went into a trance like he does. And after, you said that you understood._

_It was . . . how he got there._

_His Mistress?_

_Yeah. From what I could gather, his Mistress was hit by a car and killed. Ranger was brought to the lab after. But it was strange – it seemed like Ranger had been in the lab forever._

_He was there long before I was, Kid._

_No, before. Ranger said that Mistress was the one who got him out of a lab in the first place. Like he'd been bred inside, like me. Blood, did you ever know him without . . . all that stuff in his head?_

_No, Kid. He's always had that._

Ranger had gotten to the top of another hill, and was looking down at the other two dogs as they made their way up._ I can hear you two, you know._

Kid came up short and then looked down at his paws. _I'm sorry._

Ranger gave a sigh and then looked over at the horizon._ It's okay, Kid. I suppose I'm a weird sort of dog._

Kid grinned._ I was bred inside, so I don't have much of a comparison._

Ranger gave a mock growl and crouched playfully._ Oh ho, that's a smart mouth on you, pipsqueak. _Kid returned the growl in kind, and then Ranger jumped on Kid, and they wrestled down the gentle slope of the hill on the other side, with Blood jumping in on occasion and barking. Eventually, the three were lying on their backs, letting the afternoon sun warm their bellies. Ranger then said, _What ever happens, this is what we need to remember. We need to remember that we're dogs. Not experiments. _Blood gave noise of assent. Kid, however, remained quiet. He wasn't sure what being a dog meant, beyond working with the imbeds and chips and interacting with humans. He gave a small shudder and wondered if he'd ever know what Ranger was talking about.

That night, Ranger and Blood flushed out a covey of quail for dinner. Kid had attempted to bring something down, but he was clumsy, and a choice pheasant eluded him. He wondered what Fang would have done.

_Fang probably wasn't a good hunter_, remarked Blood. _Too big. He was a working dog, but his owner really messed him up something bad._

_That's the way it is sometimes,_ replied Ranger. _As a dog, we are molded by our owners. If they're a proper alpha, we usually turn out okay. But Fang . . . I was lucky. I never had to go through what he did._

Kid didn't know what to do when they talked like this, and to hear Ranger describe himself, a prisoner of the labs his entire life, as _lucky_ completely baffled him. It seemed to Kid that he himself wasn't a proper dog, not in the strictest sense of how Ranger would describe it. His only experience was around humans. Furthermore, he couldn't understand how the two of them could so glibly talk about Fang, as if he'd been moved to another room, instead of being thrown by the force of the gun. Perhaps they didn't see Fang's eyes as Kid did, watching the light go out of them. Suddenly, he was utterly terrified of what would happen to them. Kid dropped his portion of quail and cowered.

_What is it, Kid?_ Ranger asked, spitting out some feathers.

_What will happen to us? If we're caught?_

_Don't worry about that now, Kid. Every moment out of the box is a good moment._

_It's too . . . big out here. Too much space. I'll get lost._

Blood frowned._ It'll be okay. Come over here, Kid. _Kid complied, and he settled himself down next to Blood's comfortable bulk. Blood put his forehead against Kid's for a few moments, and shortly, Kid stopped trembling, closed his eyes, and drifted off. Once Blood was sure that Kid was in deep sleep, he left Kid's side and ambled to where Ranger sat, staring at the moon. Ranger didn't move, but he asked, _Is he okay?_

_He seems to be, as okay as he can be. He's still freaked out, Ranger. And frankly, I don't blame him. This has to be scary for a dog like him, bred in a cage. He's just like the hutch rabbits, too scared to run, too scared to stay put._

_He may be a hindrance to the two of us._

Blood turned his big head around to Ranger. _What are you saying, that you'd leave him behind?_

_If it came to that, yes._

Blood narrowed his eyes. _Then maybe you should take off. I'm not leaving him. We didn't take him out just to abandon him._

Ranger shrugged. _He got us out, that's what we needed him for._

_Don't you even care about what could happen to us?_

_Look at my head, Blood. Do you think I even know **how** to care about anything anymore? I'm as good as dead anyway. Better to die out here. If I could remove these fucking wires from my head, I would. Then, at least it would be over. _Ranger gazed out over the landscape. _I've spent my entire life in places like that lab. Kid was right; I was bred in a place like that. I've endured more lifetimes than a dog should be allowed to live. I'm older than any dog in human years, and in dog years, I'd give Methuselah a run for his money. But I can count on the toes on one paw the years I've spent free._

_Who the hell's Methuselah?_

Ranger grinned._ No one you'd know. Human reference. A side effect of where I've been forced to live all this time. I may be an unspeakable, but I want to have a chance to run after those uneatables._

_To the point that you'd sacrifice another dog to do it?_

_That's the point, Blood. The fact that I'd sacrifice Kid to do it doesn't make me a dog. It makes me human. And that's why it needs to stop. _Ranger and Blood fell silent, watching the moon as it made its path across the sky. Ranger then said, _Blood? Do you remember how to howl?_

_It's been a long time. If we do, we'll wake up Kid._

_Let's wake him up, then._

Blood and Ranger grinned at each other for a moment, and then settled onto their haunches and began to howl at the moon. Kid did wake briefly, and he opened his eyes to see Ranger and Blood silhouetted by the light of the moon. He heard the howl echo off the other hills in the valley, and buoyed by the comforting sound, fell back asleep.

The next morning, the three dogs continued their journey, although Kid really had no idea if their journey actually had a destination. _Do you know where he's taking us?_

_Can't say I do. I'm not familiar with any of this landscape, but he sure seems to be._

Suddenly, Ranger stopped. _There._

_There what?_ The other two dogs joined him at the crest of a very large hill. The countryside spread below them like a huge quilt: farms with tilled and cultivated plots of land, small copses of trees, larger orchards, and what appeared to be a village.

_Is that the outside world, Ranger?_ asked Kid.

_A chunk of it,_ replied Ranger. _And that's where we're going._

_But there's humans there_, said Blood.

_I know, but where there are humans, there tends to be food, which would be easier to get than bringing it down ourselves. We can go there, but we'd have to be very careful. Come along. Stay in the tall grass._

The three dogs made their way down the hillside and approached one of the farmhouses on the edge of the closest field.

_Aha,_ said Ranger. _Do you smell what I smell, Blood?_

_I certainly do, my good man._

Kid was confused. _What do you two smell?_

_Chickens,_ said Blood. _And nearby. And . . . oh, how lovely. Free-range. Very lucky for us that there are still some tree-hugging-fern-sniffers around._

_Things never change_, said Ranger. _Wait . ._ ._ I know that place._

_You do?_

_Yes, it's from . . . I don't remember. But I know it, it's a safe place. Do you smell it?_

Kid raised his snout but couldn't find what Ranger was talking about. _How do you know it's safe, Ranger?_

Ranger was already closer to the edge of the tall grass, yet still hidden. Ranger crouched, waiting. Then, wagging his tail, Ranger gave a single, sharp bark. Many of the chickens looked up, surprised, and ran off in different directions. Kid stood motionless beside Blood, and his eyes grew wide at the sight of another dog loping slowly in their direction.

_---Blood!_

_Stay quiet, Kid. Stay calm. I don't know what's going on, either._

This new dog, a non-descript spotted creature came closer, sniffing. Ranger stayed stock still as the dog approached. Their noses touched, and the new dog gave a low growl. Ranger responded by baring his teeth but kept his eyes on the spotted dog. Then the spotted dog looked over at Blood and Kid with interest, and came closer to them, sniffing.

_Call friend_, the new dog said. Or at least that was what Kid thought he heard. _Me Gyp._

Blood and Kid held their breath. Finally, Ranger came to the rescue. _It's okay. _

Blood was incredulous. _You know this dog, Ranger?_

_No, but she's okay with us being here. For right now, anyway. She only speaks lowtalk so she's not going to be too helpful, but she's not going to be much of a hindrance so long as we stay on her good side._

_Lowtalk?_

_No food much. One bwock._

_Good, friend, _Ranger responded to the spotted dog, which trotted away. _She says it's okay to take a little food but not too much. It'll have to do for now._ Blood snorted. _Look, Blood, I used to live in hills like these when I wasn't inside, and lowtalk was pretty universal around here. It came in pretty damn handy sometimes too. Unfortunately, it's also very limited. I'm going to get us a fat bwock, okay? Wait here._

Kid wrinkled his snout. He had no idea what Ranger was talking about with "lowtalk" but the term "bwock" became self-explanatory when Ranger caught one of the pullets in his jaws. _Why can we have only one? The humans have plenty._

_One they'll blame on foxes. More than that and they'll set up traps. C'mon, let's get further away before we serve dinner, okay?_

The taste of raw meat and blood was still so new, yet oddly satisfying to Kid, who was accustomed to dry kibble. However, the sight and smell of the blood made him think of what Fang had done to the human, and he had to force himself to eat again. Blood took notice of this but said nothing. In fact, he had remained silent until the sun began to set and Ranger had the idea of moving closer to the little village.

_Have you lost your mind? Or did a wire snap in that motherboard in your skull?_

_We need to find out what's going on, whether the lab is still tracking us._

Blood snorted. _The fact that they're looking for us is pretty well established, I think, Ranger._

_We still need to find out. I want to find out how our "disappearance" and the raid on the lab is being explained by the media. It may help us. We can't get into a computer from here, but I have another idea._

_How's that? Finding the other dog again?_

_No. Follow me._

The three dogs began moving again, this time around the far side of the field, closer to the village. Lights began going on in the windows. The smell of humans began to get stronger.

_Ranger, don't, I'm scared,_ Kid whimpered.

_It'll be okay, it'll be okay_, Ranger kept saying, like a litany. _There. Do you see that open place there? Newspapers._

_Newspapers?_

_Yeah, in that open rack. That big folded paper thing. Go grab one of those, Kid._

_ME?_

_Yeah, you're small. Less noticeable. Anyway, no one's around. Go grab one, and quick. Get the whole thing._

_No. I'm scared. _Kid grew afraid of Ranger again. Ranger turned his head to Kid and looked him in the eyes. Kid could still smell the blood of the chicken on his breath.

_Do it now, Kid._

Kid trembled, tore his eyes away from Ranger, and made a mad dash to the rack that held the newspapers. He stopped and looked at the black squiggles on the page, and was startled to realize that the squiggles actually made sense. He stared at the words on the page: MAD BIO-DOGS ON LOOSE, in big black letters.

"Hey! What the hell? Is that . . ."

"It's one of those dogs! They've got some bio-warfare shit!"

"Tom! Grab your gun!"

Kid was frozen in fear. The humans were getting closer, and one of them had a gun. And under the scent of the humans, was a faint burning scent that was so terrifyingly familiar: it smelled like coats. Kid continued to cower, wondering how Ranger ever thought they'd be able to escape from humans, and dreading that he'd be the next one to follow Fang in death. Suddenly, the air was filled with loud barks and Ranger leapt in front of Kid, snarling at the humans.

_Ranger! Don't!_

_Shut up, Kid!_

Several of the humans screamed. Then a voice cried out, "DON'T! THAT'S MY DOG!"

Suddenly, there was silence.

Ranger stood his ground, snarling at the human female that came closer.

"Poppet?"

Ranger went quiet. His eyes grew wide. _Mistress?_

"Poppet? What did they do to you?"

Ranger leapt towards his owner. _Mistress is not dead after all, not killed by the car, but alive, oh, how happy, Poppet is here, joy . . . _

And another human, a coat, grabbed Ranger by the scruff and fired a revolver into his head.

_RANGER!_

_KID! RUN! THIS WAY! HURRY!_

Kid turned and ran madly for cover in the tall grass. The humans began shouting again, above the keening wails of the human female crying out Poppet's name. Kid ran blindly in the darkness, following Blood by scent only. Kid's belly nearly touched ground as his legs stretched out in a mad gallop. He began to feel a stitch in his side from the running. And then there was another loud noise. He felt the pain of many stings in his backside, he rolled head over heels many times, and then he stopped.

And everything went silent.


	13. Boom Boom! Out Go the Lights!

_No kidding'  
I'm ready to go  
When I find her boy don't you know  
If I get her in my sight  
**Boom boom! Out go the lights! **– Pat Travers _

* * *

Spike was cleaning his gun, his good old trusty Jericho. He was pleased to learn that the gun wasn't confiscated by authorities; rather, it had been snagged by one of the remaining Dragons and held in safekeeping. The kid had returned it to Jet one day when Spike was still in the hospital, even though the kid never went to actually visit Spike. Jet described him, but Spike was unable to place who he was.

Today was going to be a big day, larger than Spike had had in a long time: he was going on a bounty today. His main purpose was to be backup for Faye, which amused him, but he was a smart enough man to realize that he still wasn't up to the task of either leading a hunt or going solo. His speech was nearly flawless, he could do a modicum of fighting, but he simply wasn't up to par. Spike was also dismayed to learn that his left side simply was neither as limber nor as strong as it used to be, which threw off his balance. He continually struggled to find a center of gravity. And furthermore, he'd been having nearly constant low-level headaches lately. The headaches were not severe enough to cause him much concern, but they were annoying.

Spike was also hoping to have a chance to get Faye off the ship, because they had left some things unfinished. Also, even though Spike was what Julia always called a clueless misogynistic male, he was still sensitive enough to know that there was something not right going on between Faye and Jet. He honestly didn't want to know the entire story behind their relationship, but the Bebop was simply too close of quarters not to notice when the balance, tenuous as it was, was out of whack.

Jet was pounding away on the ship's computer, working to get some more low-down on their target. They'd managed to work out a general vicinity for this loser: a pedophile by the name of Victor Sinikis. Spike was not necessarily proud of everything he'd done in his life, but he would shoot himself in the head, and the crotch too, before he would ever be a pedophile. And this guy, well, he took the cake: his target was mainly young girls under the age of fifteen, and every time Spike thought about Sinikis, he'd think of Ed. He missed the girl.

_I miss her too._

Spike looked over his shoulder to see Ein. _Yo._

_Yo, yourself. You know, it's funny to me how every time I talk to you, you have to locate me to make sure I was the one who spoke. How many dogs on this ship talk to you in your head?_

Spike chuckled. _Yeah, but you also talk in my head from great distances, and it also seems that you can also read my thoughts. That's creepy, dog._

_You seem nervous, Spike._

_Why shouldn't I be? It's been practically nine months since I've been on a bounty. Furthermore . . ._

". . . Spike!"

Spike whipped his head around and blinked several times before he realized that Jet was trying to get his attention. "Cripes, what is it, Jet?"

Jet scowled. "I would tell you to take your thumb out of your ass, but it looks like it might be doing you some good. Take a look at this."

Spike rolled his eyes, clicked the magazine of his Jericho home, and ambled over to Jet's monitor. "What do you have?"

"A list of aliases for Victor Sinikis. He's been traveling under a lot of different names, but this might be his most recent. The scuttle is that he's running a revival tour aimed at teens under the name Seth Popovic."

"A revival? A _religious_ revival? That son of a bitch."

Just then, Faye walked in, adjusting her brief blouse. "Talking about yourself in the third person again, Spike?"

Spike grinned. "You know, as kid, I got whupped a few times, but the worst whupping I ever got was when I couldn't stop laughing after my mother called me a son of a bitch." Spike laughed for a moment, and then he sobered. "This creep we're going after, he's got a youth revival gig going. Probably looking for fresh meat." Spike actually took a look at Faye and her outfit and said, "You're not wearing that, are you?"

Faye looked down at her abbreviated wardrobe. "What's wrong with it?"

Spike sighed. "You can't dress like a whore and not stand out at a revival, my dear. If you want to be inconspicuous, wear the industrial bra and a shirt long enough to tuck in so you don't expose belly flesh when you're jumping around in the rapture of the Almighty."

Faye wrinkled her brow in confusion, and then scowled. "Like you're not going to burst into flames when you step through the door. Fine." Faye turned on her heel and stalked off

"_Industrial bra?_" smirked Jet. Spike shrugged with a smile and ambled back to his room. His new suit, much like his old one, was not exactly an inconspicuous look for a teen revival either. He was glad to realize that his headache was diminishing, however.

A short while later, both Faye and Spike were landing their respective ships in an inconspicuous area. Spike hopped out of the Swordfish and briefly touched the hull like he was greeting an old friend. He'd missed flying. It was a bit awkward, again because of the weakness of the left side, but he managed just fine.

_Just keep up the negative perspiration, and everything will be fine_, Ein's voice chimed in his head.

_Negative perspiration, check_, thought Spike idly. Faye was catching up to Spike, and he finally got a look at her change in clothes: slim black pants, a white sleeveless button-up blouse, and black flat boots. Spike wondered where she was hiding her Glock.

"Better, Mister Revival Fashion House?" she queried.

"Almost perfect," Spike replied, and he reached to close one more button on her blouse. Faye blushed as his fingertips brushed her skin. Then he held out a small wooden cross on a leather cord. "Here. Wear this. Just don't lose it." Then he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a similar unadorned wooden cross on a cord. He dropped it over his head, checked his Jericho in the holster he wore under his flannel shirt, and said, "Shall we?" Faye dropped the cross over her head, and then took a quick peek at the back, which said "Peregrine, 2057". Unsure what this meant, she followed Spike down the street towards the revival where they hoped to find their bounty.

They didn't need a GPS to tell them they were going in the right direction, though; the noise of the crowd and the music led the way. Soon, they both got into a throng of people, mostly teenagers and college kids, all extolling the virtues of the Lord. Faye suddenly found herself pulled into a prayer circle with a group of girls, and they were soon chanting show they would be brides of Christ and chastity until the Lord found suitable husbands for them. It was all Faye could do to either not run screaming or laughing hysterically. She looked around for Spike, and saw him laughing and high-fiving with a group of young men, and she actually heard Spike say, "Praise to Him on high!" as he lifted his hand above his head. Faye had enough time to wonder just how familiar Spike was with these revivals when he suddenly came up to her and said, "Faye, we have to get inside. Seth Popovic is definitely in there."

One of the other girls in the prayer circle squealed and said, "Yes! And Godsicle is playing right now! They're so good looking and so Jesus-centric!"

Spike replied, "Amen, sister!" and grabbed Faye's hand and led her through the throng towards the door of the warehouse that was hosting the event. One the way through the doors, they both had their left hands inscribed with a huge black "x", which, as Spike explained it, were marks that they were clean and drug, alcohol, and nicotine free, and lived their lives clean on body, mind, and soul. Faye rolled her eyes briefly and Spike smirked and winked at her in return.

The band Godsicle was jumping about on stage, singing about the perils of a woman named Jezebel as another group of young people jumped about in the thrall of the hard rock song. Faye was amused at how this very secular-sounding rock music could so easily have dogma in its lyrics, and then Spike grabbed her hand, and led her to the near edge of the pseudo mosh pit. "Do you see him yet?" yelled Spike over the music, as he jumped about much like the young people with his arm raised in the air.

"What are you _doing_?" shrieked Faye.

"Blending in. And jumping helps me see over the crowd. Wait . . ." Spike did a few pogo jumps in time to the music – _thank God for drum solos_, thought Spike – and then said, "I think I saw him. Kind of short, with wiry red hair. Down front, near that alley that leads back to the stage. Scream 'praise the Lord' or something while I lift you up." Spike then grabbed Faye and lifted her onto his shoulder, like he had seen some of the other young men doing to their girls.

Shortly, she said, "Got him! I'll work my way down there." Faye slid off his shoulder.

"What's your plan?"

"Sidle up to him and nab him, of course."

"I'll swing around the far side. Make sure you do innocent flirting, and not your worldly harlot routine. And act younger. He might be turned off by someone your age."

"I _know_ how to do this, Spike." And with that, she began to dance through the crowd, doing her best to behave like the other young women there. Spike moved back toward the sidelines and watched her go and make contact. However, she must have bungled the rendezvous, because Popovic/Sinikis made a run for the back of the stage.

"Christ in a sidecar," Spike muttered as he began to jog to the other side of the stage. He got there just in time to get Popovic's elbow in his throat, and then Popovic ran towards the crowd. Coughing, Spike muttered a few more epithets that broke at least two of the Ten Commandments, and took off after him. Spike knew that he couldn't use his gun in a crowd like this – not that it really ever stopped him before – but there were simply too many people, all of whom were thinking that Popovic was going on stage soon to testify for the Lord, not scout the crowd for new slew of girls the same age as Ed.

With the thought of Ed fresh in his mind, Spike bounded through the crowd, saw his quarry, and leapt forward in a full body tackle, taking down Popovic and unfortunately a few innocent bystanders. Popovic responded by kicking back with one foot against Spike's bad left leg, and pulling a girl's pants down to her ankles trying to pull himself up. Shrieks filled the air. Spike had had enough of this crap already, so he pulled out his Jericho and pistol-whipped Popovic on the back of his skull, making Popovic go instantly limp. Spike struggled to his feet, muttering. He looked up to realize that the entire warehouse was silent, save for the squeal of approaching sirens. He took a quick look at the girl who'd gotten pantsed, and she seemed okay. He took another quick look over his shoulder to see Faye, working her way through the crowd, her Glock out and pointed downwards. He looked back down at Popovic, who lay face-down and spread eagled on the floor, and gave him a kick in the crotch for good measure.

Sighing, Spike reached into his pocket with his left hand, the one emblazoned with the black "x" of bodily purity, pulled out a smoke and lit it, saying, "Excuse me. Carry on with your party."

Spike and Faye bickered the entire way to collect the bounty, haggled over what percentage each of them should get, and then, when they'd finally decided to get a drink, fought over which bar to go to. As they ambled down the street towards a watering hole, Spike said, "You know, I've missed bantering with you."

Faye looked up at Spike, surprised by his friendly words. "Me too."

"Is everything okay?"

"With what?"

"With Jet." Faye didn't answer, and Spike decided that it wasn't really any of his business. He decided on a different tack. "Could I have that cross back, please?"

"Oh . . . here." Faye handed the cross over. "Who is Peregrine?"

"Someone from long ago."

"Why do you have his cross?"

"Because it's mine."

Faye frowned. "I don't get it."

Spike sighed. "I don't either, these days."

After a moment, Faye said, "Isn't Peregrine the patron saint of . . . I can't remember."

"Peregrine was the patron saint of the wounded and the sick."

"I thought that was Saint Jude."

"He's the patron saint of lost causes."

Faye furrowed her brow. "How come you know so much about patron saints? Is Peregrine your patron? Were you actually _confirmed_?"

Spike didn't answer her; he merely lit another cigarette. "Who was your patron saint?"

Faye was still so dumbfounded at the possibility that Spike was a former Catholic that she blurted out, "Mary Magdelene."

Spike smirked. "Not surprised," he muttered, and then he cursed in pain when Faye delivered a mighty slug to his left shoulder. They continued on in silence for a while, and then Faye said, "Whose cross are you wearing?"

Spike still had his cross hanging around his neck. He lifted up to eye level and looked at it for a moment. "My father's."

Faye had never considered Spike to have a father, as ridiculous as that sounded, and she opened her mouth to ask Spike about him, but then they reached the tavern, where Spike bought her a drink even though they had decided to each buy their own.

By the time they'd each had a night cap and made it back to the ship, Spike was excessively weary. His back ached, probably from lifting Faye up and then tackling the guy. He didn't feel one morsel of remorse for kicking the guy's area, but his left hamstring felt stiff because of it. He didn't see Jet on his way in, so Spike slipped unseen to his room. Ein was taking up his usual corner and looked asleep, but then he opened one eye, gave a mighty yawn, and said, _that went fairly well._

_Fairly well, yes, _Spike concurred. He took off his shirt and started rubbing his lower back. _Christ, that hurts._

_Lift me up onto the bed._ Spike quirked an eyebrow at the dog, but he complied, and then the dog asked him to lie face down on the bed. Once Spike had done so, after giving a quizzical look to the little dog, Ein then jumped on Spike's back and began walking all over it.

Spike groaned. _So not only are you a data dog, you give shiatsu massages as well?_

_You overdid it, didn't you?_

_What do you think?_

_I think Jet's already got another one for you._

_Bring it on. Ein, I will give you exactly two hours to stop doing whatever you're doing._

_I'm concerned about this bounty, though. It's a gang made up of leftover Red Dragons._

Spike opened his eyes. He took a breath, and then said, _What's their beef?_

_Apparently, their beef is with you._

_Vicious sympathizers._

_Precisely._

_See, this is why I didn't want to take over the Dragons, like Mao allegedly wanted me to. Too much political shit. I'm no good at stuff like that. Who's in charge of this little faction?_

_Hiroki Sautsuma._

_Why is that name familiar?_

_He's the one who brought you back your Jericho. Is your back feeling better?_ Spike didn't answer, and his eyes were closed. Ein settled down on the small of Spike's back and closed his eyes himself, and it seemed to both of them that they dreamed of rolling hills filled with wheat, and a lazy afternoon breeze as small animals darted in and out of the tall stalks.

Spike later opened one eye and saw only a darkened room. He could taste stale whiskey on his tongue, and he could feel a small but warm and heavy bundle on the small of his back. He also had a headache worse than any hangover he could ever remember. Spike craned his head around on his neck to see something furry, and then he remembered Ein walking all over his back like a small Asian woman in a disreputable massage parlor. Spike rolled to his side, and Ein slid off Spike's back with a grunt, but he didn't wake up. Spike pulled a shirt on and wandered out to the common area, where Jet was sitting again, pounding on the computer.

"Jet."

"Spike."

"What did that keyboard ever do to you?"

"What did you ever do to Hiroki Sautsuma?" Jet snapped back.

"Other than breathing? I don't know what his deal is. He apparently was the one who returned my Jericho while I was in the hospital. I didn't know that returning a revolver was the same as throwing down a gauntlet."

"Well, it's not just him, but a group. Check this out." Jet leaned back to show a page from a website – _the Dragons now have a website? Stone the crows,_ thought Spike -- that had some scuttle on it regarding Hiroki and his "long standing feud" with Spike Spiegel. "You have a feud going on with this guy? Why don't you ever tell me these things, Spike?"

"Hard to mention when you don't know it yourself. Has he done anything like throw a brick through a window yet? Or called for a _rumble_?"

"A rumble?" That was Faye, entering the room from the shower while scrubbing her wet hair with a towel.

"Nice hair," mumbled Jet.

"At least I have hair," snipped Faye. Jet ignored her. "So does that make you a Shark or a Jet?"

Spike was confused. "Jet? Jet's a Jet . . . maybe . . . isn't he?"

"Gah!" exclaimed Faye. "You are such a Philistine, Spiegel." Faye moved out of the room, singing, "When you're a Jet / you're a Jet all the way / from your first cigarette / to your last dying day . . ."

"Jet, do you ever understand what the hell that woman is talking about?"

"I try to ignore her these days. Are you going to meet up with this clown?"

Spike shrugged. "I suppose. I don't feel like having him hanging around with some chip on his shoulder."

Spike began to mosey his way to the Swordfish, and Jet called after him, "You're taking Faye as backup!"

"She can catch up."

Jet harrumphed and went back to looking at the screen. He didn't like the idea of this punk, either, but Hiroki was younger and certainly more able-bodied, and Jet felt sure that once again, Spike was walking into not necessarily a deathtrap, but certainly as his old man liked to say, _a whirlpool of suck_.

Spike gunned the Swordfish a little bit more as he flew toward the city centre. She'd gotten a bit sluggish from sitting in the dock for so long. But he didn't trust Jet, and certainly not Faye, to fire the old girl up and take her for a spin to keep her from getting clapped out. Spike lit a cigarette, tucking an extra behind his ear for later, and made his way to where he'd heard that the Dragons were setting up shop. Already, he was wary – this was a new stretch of town, very shiny with lots of glass buildings, not the older, more ethnic area where the Dragons had held sway for so long.

But like a dog finds his way home, Spike homed in on the new location with ease, actually getting a parking stub for the Swordfish. He wondered casually if Hiroki would validate it for him, and tucked the stub in his pocket after checking his Jericho again. He was still so tired from yesterday, but he hoped that the weariness looked more like boredom on his face, still drawn and thin from so many months of recovery. His headache was also showing no signs of waning. Yes, it was turning out to be a lovely day indeed.

He pushed open the door of the brass and glass offices, and located the office candy immediately. He ambled his way over to her, still dragging on his smoke, and asked to see a Mr. Sautsuma.

The office girl fanned the air in front of her face with her hand, coughed a delicate cough, and said, "There's no smoking in here, sir." Spike looked at her a moment, and then flipped the butt into his mouth and swallowed it. The girl openly grimaced.

"Is Mr. Sautsama available?" repeated Spike.

"Do you have an appointment?" the girl asked with distaste for this very strange man who'd entered her space.

"No."

The girl curled her lip. "And your name is?"

"Spike Spiegel."

That got the girl's attention, and the disgust on her face turned more fearful. She said, "Excuse me," and got up and walked to the big double doors as quickly as her little tight skirt would allow, and slipped through. Spike cooled his heels while looking at the non-descript art that matched the furniture.

The double doors flung open, and a short man in an impeccable and expensive suit came through, exclaiming "Spike Spiegel!" The man, who was also wearing sunglasses – probably as expensive as the suit -- then came over to Spike and caught him up in a gruff hug, and then began to shake Spike's hand, pumping it up and down like a butter churn. "Hiroki Sautsuma, a pleasure, a pleasure."

"You're very pleasant to a man that you purport to be having a feud with."

"Oh, that's just talk for the newspapers. Come with me." Spike was wary, but he allowed himself to be led into the main part of the building, while Hiroki waxed philosophical about the direction he wanted to take the Dragons in. ". . . This of course, being with your approval."

"Why would you need my approval?"

"That's the way Mao would have wanted it."

"Look, whatever Mao had in mind, I was unaware of once I left the Dragons. He didn't relay that kind of information to me."

"Because you went underground, Spiegel. Not exactly the way Mao would have wanted to pass on his legacy."

Hiroki's switch to calling him _Spiegel _didn't go unnoticed by Spike. "I didn't want his legacy then and I still don't want it now. You can run things however you see fit."

"But, you see, there is a problem. As long as you live, you control Mao's dynasty whether you claim to admit it or not. You have executive power over the Dragons -- both in a financial and operational sense. I don't know if that little hacker girl of yours was the one to set this up, because our hackers were unable to reverse the paperwork, a majority of which, ironically, didn't get generated until _after_ your . . . discussion . . . with Vicious. Long after Mao's . . . untimely death."

Spike's mind whirled for a moment. He had thought that Mao had this in the works for a long time, but that was apparently not true. Ed wouldn't have hacked the Dragons network unless he had specifically told her to; Ed was more of a mischief-maker than anything else on her own. That only left . . . _Ein._

A voice popped into Spike's headEin's voice. _Look at his eyes. _Spike did, and even though Hiroki's eyes were half-concealed by the expensive sunglasses, Spike could see enough of them to know that he was looking at eyes burned with Red-Eye. Red-Eye, the highly trafficked drug of the Dragons, the item that made for most of their collateral. An item widely used by the Dragons themselves, for it made the user feel even more invincible than the PCP and methamphetamine users of the century before.

_Get out of there, _another voice in Spike's head said. This voice was decidedly not Ein's, but an older, gruffer voice.

_What? Who the fuck are you?_

_Get out! _The voice repeated.

Doing his best to not show just how rattled he was by the presence of a voice in his head besides his own and Ein's, Spike said, "I don't know what you're talking about, Hiroki, and I honestly don't give a damn. If Mao had paperwork or financials set in place, that had nothing to do with me. We have nothing more to discuss. Good day." Spike began to make his way back to the double doors, thinking that if he could get out to where the office candy was, then the situation would simmer out. But then he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked right at the back of his head. Spike stopped moving. He stood, silently, feeling the cold metal of the barrel against his skull. Then, in an attempt to sound less apprehensive than he felt, Spike sighed and said, "If you kill me, Sautsuma, Mao's dynasty goes right to probate."

"Better there than in your traitorous hands."

_So that's what this is about._ "I said, I don't care about the dynasty. It was not what I wanted."

"Unfortunately, despite your . . . _abdication_, you will be a Dragon until the moment of your death."

The lyrics that Faye had sung earlier came back to his mind as he slowly shifted his weight forward. _From my first cigarette to my last dying day. We'll see about that. _Spike then spun, grabbing Sautsuma's arm in one hand and delivering a punch to the gut with the other, which disarmed the shorter man. However, this set off alarms to the other members of the syndicate, who all seemed to appear from nowhere. Spike took one more punch to the guy's jaw, then let go and took off running to the double doors under a hail of bullets. He dove through the huge double doors, scaring complete hell out of the office girl, particularly when he joined her behind her desk and began firing back.

Just then, all of the glass walls of the outer office began exploding.

Spike looked out the front door to see none other than Faye in her Redtail, shooting out the entire lobby. She nearly flew her ship into the office itself, and Spike, for once, was glad to see her. He felt like taking this opportunity to get lost, when he got hit by two bullets from Hiroki's crew: one to the left shoulder and another to the right side of his gut. _Fuck. Again? _Spike dropped to his knees, doubled over in pain. And the worst of it was, the new pain from the bullets did absolutely nothing to take care of the headache. He fell to one hand, and looked up to see Hiroki standing over him, his gun pointed directly at Spike's nose. At the same time, Faye had her Redtail hovering with her guns pointed directly at Hiroki. Spike raised his gun, arm shaking, level with Hiroki's gun on him.

They stayed that way for quite a while.

"Are you finally ready to die?" asked Hiroki softly.

Spike's eyes narrowed. "I'm getting mighty tired of dying." And Spike pulled his trigger, and Hiroki's head disappeared in an explosion of blood and gore. Hiroki's hand dropped, but his reflexes went into play anyway, and his gun fired into Spike's left bicep. Then the Redtail fired in a flurry of bullets, practically disintegrating Hiroki's body.

Then the room fell blissfully silent.

The last things Spike remembered before the darkness came was the new sound of sirens, Faye's dismayed face, and how the pain in his head had reached a zenith.

Then, Spike was dreaming again, dreaming of the beautiful women with long flowing hair, abbreviated wrestling costumes, singing in Esperanto. But this time, their song kept going off key, hitting flats and sharps that shouldn't be possibly made by a human voice. The piercing sound went straight to Spike's bones, making them rattle and hurt even more. Then, a luscious redhead began a note that should have been high F but was something else instead, and threatened to shatter Spike's eyeballs, and he was surprisingly relieved when the sound of some asshole screaming in his ear overpowered the shrill note.

Spike's eyes flew open, and fell upon the grizzled face of Barleigh, who sat in a chair, leaning on his cane.

Barleigh sighed. "You never learn, do you? Just when we thought we were done with your ugly mug, you get yourself shot and land, once again, in my highly esteemed care."

"Your face is nothing to . . . write home about."

Barleigh frowned. "Are your headaches getting worse?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You're having mild stroke symptoms again."

"Am . . . not."

"Yes, you are. You're slurring your words again, and I'm noticing slackness around your mouth."

"Not . . . slurring."

"Perhaps you think you're not slurring, but you're concentrating with all your will not to, which comes out as slow and clipped speech, which I recognize as a cover-up for slurred speech. Look at the light."

Spike had no choice but to succumb to his ministrations, but thankfully, Thompson and her pretty face showed up, taking notes, drawing blood, and setting up tests. Once Barleigh left, Thompson began to disengage Spike from the monitors and began rolling his bed out of the room, with the help of Kennedy. They rolled past Barleigh, who was in deep discussions with Jet and Faye.

_Well, Faye at least_, thought Spike with a smirk.

He was run through the battery of tests, which proved inconclusive. Barleigh finally had to admit that, new bullet holes and the almost constant headache aside, there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. "Have you ever considered a more sedate line of work? Lion taming, perhaps?"

Spike sighed. "If there'sh nothing wrong with me, then can I go home?"

"Indulge us and stay for observation for a bit longer. Besides, you just had bullets removed from your ungrateful body. You should stay here for a bit." Barleigh finally stumped out of the room, taking Thompson and Kennedy with him. They must have then allowed Jet and Faye access to the room, because they came in shortly after.

Jet had his usually stern look. "Spike."

"Yo."

Faye sat down near Spike, and said, "It's a good thing I showed up, huh?"

"I was never more glad to see you," replied Spike, and Faye turned pink.

Jet noticed Faye's reaction, but kept his eyes on Spike. "What did you find out?"

"Oddly enough, Hiroki said that Mao had set up me as the legitimate heir to the entire Dragon's syndicate, which frankly baffles me, but at the same time, a lot of the files were created not only after his death, but after . . . Vicious."

_I guess I didn't wipe out the paper trail well enough._

_What?_

_I thought I had covered my tracks better. I'm better at hacking than file manipulation. I didn't expect for the noobs to try to re-create the syndicate like they did. I'm working on dissolving the whole thing now._

_Ein, what the hell . . ._

". . . Spike? Are you okay? Should I get the doctor?"

Spike's eyes came back into focus to see Jet close to the foot of his bed, looking pensive, and Faye was on her feet, leaning over him, and her hand on his forehead. "What . . . what?" Spike asked, confused.

"You just . . . faded out on us. Are you _sure_ you're feeling all right?"

Faye looked at Jet. "I'm going to find Barleigh."

"No! Don't . . ." said Spike. "I'm okay . . . Just groggy with the meds." Faye and Jet looked at each other for a while, and then back at Spike. Faye sat back down, and Jet changed the subject.

In the end, Spike was sent back to the Bebop.


	14. Wanna Taste What It's Like To Be Free

_So it's off with the ties  
No compromise  
**Wanna taste what it's like to be free** – Judas Priest_

_

* * *

Kid. Kid. Can you hear me?_

Kid was dreaming, dreaming of a beautiful woman with long long hair, with sweet-smelling skin and a soft melodious voice, and he knew that this must be Mistress, the Mistress that Ranger/Poppet loved so much, but Kid knew her too, and she was also his Mistress, Mistress with the long hair and the sweet skin and the soft voice that carried him through this ether of dreams, gently, gently, and then Kid became slowly aware that someone was talking to him. He also became aware of a terrible stinging pain in his rump. _Blood?_

_You're going to be okay, Kid._

_It **hurts**, Blood!_

_I know, Kid. We'll try to get that taken care of. You got buckshot in your ass, it's not too bad, but it stings like a mofo. From what I hear._

_Where are we?_

_I don't know. Shit, Kid, I'm sorry about all this. This is so fucked._

Suddenly, a third voice, high-pitched, rang out. _Black things. Bad. Take out black things._

_What the hell?_

_I didn't say anything, Kid._

_No. There's someone else here, Blood._

_No, there isn't, Kid. No one's around but . . . well, a big-ass black bird above us._

Kid craned his head to look at the bird. _Did you say something?_

_Take out. Black things._

Kid concentrated on the bird. _Can you help?_

_Help. _The bird swooped down, and Blood jumped back with a start.

_What the fuck? Get away from him!_

_Blood, leave the bird alone. He said he'd help._

_Help? How? He's big enough to eat you._

The bird turned one yellow eye on Blood for a moment, and then started picking the pellets out of Kid's rump with his beak. _Help. Black things bad. Take out._

Blood was incredulous. _How did you know the bird could help you?_

_He told me. He speaks the lowtalk too._

_You can actually hear that? I thought Ranger was talking bullshit._

_You didn't hear the other dog? _The two dogs looked at each other, confused. Then the bird dug especially deep after a shell. _OW!_

_Get black stuff out._

_Not so hard! You can't hear the bird, Blood?_

_No, Kid. I can't hear the fucking bird. I couldn't hear the other dog. I had no idea what the hell Ranger was talking about. I thought he was in one of his "Poppet" modes._

_Hairy woof not hear?_

Kid grimaced._ No, bird, "hairy woof" not hear._

The bird spit a pellet in Blood's direction. _Black stuff gone._

_Thank you, bird._

_Me Grack._

_Thank you, Grack._

Blood snorted. _Yes, thanks, Grack. Now beat it before I eat you. _The bird took a moment to peck Blood's nose before taking off. _Ow! Goddammit. You're bleeding again, Kid. Let's get you cleaned up. Then we have to move again._

_They're not going to stop looking for us._

_We have to keep moving._

_No, Blood, they're going to find us._

_Not if we keep going, Kid. Another day out of the box, that's all that matters._

_It doesn't matter, Blood, when they find us, we'll die. They'll shoot us in the head like Fang and Ranger, so what's the fucking point?_

_The fucking point is that we are** outside**, Kid, we're not getting poked and prodded and chipped and electrocuted and otherwise fucked up._

_Outside? Outside? _Kid sat, panting._ Blood. Shit, Blood. . . We're not going to get out of this alive. This is **better**? You call **this** better? We're more fucking trapped **out here**, Blood, than we ever were **inside**! Face it, Blood, this entire expedition of yours was completely fucking pointless. Ranger led us out to die. Fang was fucked from the word go. You should have left me in the goddamned box. At least there I knew what to expect._

Blood was glowering._ Maybe we **should** have left you there. We thought we were giving you a chance. _

_Yeah, sure. A chance. A chance to watch two friends die right in front of me, and to get buckshot in my ass. Thanks one **fucking** lot, Blood. Is this what you mean by the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable, whatever in the **fuck** that means?_

Blood went silent.

_Nothing to say, Blood? You always have words to toss out there._

Blood still didn't respond. He gazed out over the meadow. Then he sighed. _You're part right, Kid. I'm not going to get out of this alive. You will, though._

_What?_

_They're not going to kill you. I heard the coats after one of them fired in your direction. 'Not the Corgi!' You're the one they want. I'm just collateral. Call me crazy, but . . . all I wanted was to see a sunset again. To smell the grass. To be a dog, just a **dog**, not some fucking experiment. Even if it's just for one last day. _He turned to Kid. _And I thought you should have a chance at that too. I'm sorry, Kid._

Kid dropped his gaze. _Listen, Blood, things being what they are . . . you might have a better chance if we didn't continue together._

_What?_

_Maybe, if you weren't with me . . . you'd be able to get by. _

_Is that what you want, Kid?_

_It doesn't matter what I want. You said it yourself, when they find us, they'll kill you. If we're separated, you have a chance to get away._

_Kid, I . . ._

_Blood, please. I can't see you die, too. I'd rather you be somewhere else when they find me. I'm not smart enough to stay out here. I'm better off inside._

_I don't want that kind of life for you, Kid._

_And I don't want this kind of death for you, Blood._

Blood and Kid stood still for a moment. Then Blood came forward and held his forehead against Kid's. _You stay strong, Kid. Be careful. I don't think those uneatables that Ranger kept talking about are as uneatable as folks think, so I'm going to find out. _

And Blood turned and ran off through the grass.

Kid stared at his own paws, unable to watch Blood go. After a few minutes, he heard a distant howl at the newly risen moon.

And even though Kid didn't know, really, whose howl it was, Kid returned the howl in kind.


	15. Shine On You Crazy Diamond

_Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far  
Shine on you crazy diamond  
Pile on many more layers and I'll be joining you there  
**Shine on you crazy diamond** – Pink Floyd_

* * *

_**GodDAMNIT.**_

Swing. Turn. Punch.

_**BITCH.**_

Punch. Feint. Swipe.

_**FUCK.**_

Kick. Kick. Feint.

_Spike?_

**_WHAT?_**

Spike stopped shadowboxing to glare at Ein.

_Perhaps you should take it easy, Spike_.

This statement earned Ein nothing from Spike except a snort and a return to his shadowboxing.

After a mildly disastrous run-in with a few members of an off-shoot gang comprised of former, but low-level, Red Dragon members and a subsequent hospital stay to remove three bullets, even Spike had to admit that he was not up to the task of bounty hunting just yet. Since then he had been working even harder to fine-tune his newly designed fighting style. The problem was that then there was a lull in bounties, so Spike hadn't had an opportunity to field-test his new capabilities.

This caused several weeks of tension on the Bebop, with many raised voices. Ein had tried to ignore most of the "discussions" as they tended to simply boil down to Spike and Faye hurling insults at each other, with a few zingers from Jet thrown in.

Unfortunately, a large and significant and high-profile bounty came up. A well-known female assassin's whereabouts suddenly became public knowledge. This assassin was beautiful, she was dangerous, and she was worth a lot of money. And Faye didn't want Spike going after it.

The reason for this was several-folded, naturally. Faye's financial state, although her large past debt had been closed, was still a bit on the tenuous side, and she really wanted to establish herself strongly in the woolong department. Faye also wanted to prove something, prove that she was a quality bounty hunter, although she wasn't quite sure whether it was Jet or Spike she was trying to impress.

Faye had attempted to cajole Spike and appeal to his sensible side, what sense he had. She tried to play down the importance of such a bounty, and how it wouldn't be worth his trouble. She had even gone so far as to actually _forbid_ him to leave the Bebop, and to make matters worse, Jet _agreed _with her. Jet knew that Spike was not well enough to take on such a task; in fact, Jet wasn't even sure that he and Faye, able-bodied as they were, could handle this bounty. Spike had countered that Jet's arm and Faye's _stupidity_ didn't exactly put them in the running of being successful. Faye responded to that opinion with one of her own, one that precluded that Spike was missing at least one part, if not all, of his genitalia. Spike's retort to Faye precluded her evening occupation and habits. Faye's retort to Spike precluded farm animals, both in his ancestry and sexual preferences.

_And it was at that point that negotiations broke down_, thought Ein, as he continued to watch the lanky man punish himself with another lengthy _kata._ It finally turned out that Jet and Faye had left Spike behind as the two went in search of the bounty, and Spike was currently working out his frustrations with a shadow. _Well, that, and a wall or two,_ noted Ein, looking at Spike's recently bandaged knuckles.

Faye and Jet were currently flying their respective ships to the other side of Mars, where they had gotten intell that their current bounty was hanging out. The entire journey had been terse, beyond Jet barking directions. Faye merely shook her head and sighed; despite her tender years (beyond those spent in cryo-hibernation) she knew well enough to not bother a male regarding directions. They landed their ships near a harbor and met up at the end of a pier. Jet was lighting a cigarette, his back to the chilly air. He did not offer a cigarette to Faye. "Are you up for this?"

Faye arched a single carefully plucked eyebrow. "Ready, steady, go."

"Don't get ahead of either me or yourself. Do precisely what I say and we might just get ourselves out of this with our skins."

"If you're so skittish about this bounty, Jet, why did you bother coming after it?"

Jet shrugged, which was a sure bet that he was lying. "We need the cash."

"I've been floating us okay for a while."

"Hospital bills. And Spike still can't pull his weight."

"You never got this pissy when he was laid up before. Pierrot . . ."

"Never mind. Let's get moving." Jet jammed his hands into his pockets and took off walking up the pier, head down, his gait looking so much like Spike's lazy mosey that Faye almost laughed. However, she kept her mouth shut and followed Jet.

They walked to a tea room, a traditional one that still had geishas pouring the tea in the ages-old ceremony. And there, in plain sight, was their quarry: Sayuri, the so beautiful, yet so dangerous assassin. She was dressed in traditional kimonos herself, her obi tied tight into the prefect box on her middle back. Faye half-wondered if Sayuri kept her weaponry in her bodice or in her obi when Sayuri stood effortlessly, as if she had floated to her feet. "Bounty hunters?"

Jet was so surprised at how direct the woman was that he replied, "Yes. Come with us, please."

"Jet Black of the ISSP. You and your ilk were unable to tether me then. Despite your _Black Dog_ moniker, this is one target your teeth were never able to hold."

Jet tilted his head. "I'm honored at your long memory, Sayuri. The years have been good to you, it seems."

"I'm sorry to see that the years have not been good to you. The loss of your arm is not something I would have wished upon you, and the loss of your hair makes you appear so much older beyond your years. I have also heard about the . . . illness of your partner. Please give him my regards."

"I will, once you come with us."

"'Us', you say? The young lady is with you? I thought you could afford better than that, my old friend."

It suddenly occurred to Faye just what the lovely kimono-garbed woman was insinuating, and Faye jumped forward with a snarl, her Glock at the ready. "Can it, bitch!"

Sayuri sighed, and replied, "Manners, manners." Seemingly out of nowhere, a katana appeared at the side of Faye's neck, and Faye felt about an inch of her hair, freshly cut by the razor-sharp blade, fall on her collarbone. "I know who you are, Poker Alice. Do not trifle with me."

"I could say the same to you." Faye took half a step backward, and then moved to duck under the blade, but Sayuri anticipated her move and dropped the blade just enough to catch Faye's upper arm, leaving a thin cut. Faye gasped, and stepped back further, just as Jet circled around, putting the barrel of his revolver against Sayuri's skull and grabbing the wrist that held the blade.

"Stop moving, Sayuri."

Sayuri caught Jet's eye. Her eyes were twinkling. She swung about, knocking his gun from her temple with one hand and bringing the blade against his rib cage with the other. Jet winced, but it appeared that the blade did not cut his skin: it was stopped against the composite material in the vest he was wearing. Faye was agog. "You got a new _vest_?"

Jet made another grab for the hand with the katana. "Damnit, Faye . . ."

"And you didn't tell me? Or offer me one when you knew what we were up against?"

"Shut up, Faye!" snapped Jet as he bent Sayuri's wrist back enough to make her drop the katana.

Sayuri, however, never stopped smiling. "You've let my tea grow cold," she murmured, and then pulled a small stiletto from her obi and drove it into Jet's collarbone. Jet let go with a grunt of pain, and Sayuri swept from his grasp, retrieved her katana, and sailed out the door before Faye even got her Glock cocked. Jet pulled the stiletto from his shoulder and began to take off after Sayuri. "Damnit, Faye, move your ass!"

Faye dashed out on the heels of Jet. "Don't you yell at me!"

Jet began muttering every swear word he could think of under his breath as his head whipped back and forth, searching for a trace of the beautiful assassin. He thought he saw a flutter of her kimono high atop a fire escape, but as he went to hoist himself up the bottom of the ladder, the pain in his shoulder was too unbearable. He stood, forehead resting on a rung, breathing heavily. Faye stood behind him, watching the blood from his wound trickle over his shoulder and stain the collar of his tee shirt. She waited for the explosion. Surely he would blame this on her. And it was her fault: their failure began when Faye lost her temper. Finally, Jet took a deep breath and said, "Are you okay?"

It took Faye a moment to remember that she'd been injured as well. She looked at her arm where a thin line of blood stood, already dry. "I'm fine. You're the one that's hurt."

He had yet to face her. "It's nothing. In the big scheme of things, we got off lucky."

"We didn't get the bounty."

"We got away with our lives."

"You've chased her before. You knew her."

"Two dozen or more officers have died trying to capture her."

"You knew that and still we went after her?"

Jet finally turned and caught her eye. "You were the one hipped up about chasing her. I was trying to keep you from getting killed."

Faye snorted. "Thanks for caring."

Jet's eyes narrowed. "Believe me; it would be so much easier on me if I didn't, Faye." He moved past her and walked back to the pier where the Hammerhead was. Faye watched him go, confused by him as she was by the other resident male on the Bebop. _And men complain about women being so mys-fucking-terious_, she thought. She began to follow him. Jet shook another cigarette out of the pack, and lit it, but this time, he offered one to her.

Spike, meanwhile, had continued his _katas_ at the same breakneck pace. Ein had honestly never seen Spike quite so furious, and he wondered at just how frustrated Spike was.

_Spike._

Spike continued his intricate foot pattern.

_Spike, **STOP**._

Spike stopped. He was breathing hard and pouring sweat. His hands were still clenched into fists.

_What is the problem, Spike?_

"What ish the problem? Weren't you paying attention earlier? Here I thought you were shmart."

_This can't just be because they didn't want you to go on this potential death trip._

"Yeah, well, that hazh a l-lot to do with it."

_And what else?_

"I don't l-like people telling me what to do. Eshpeshully _her_."

_She's worried about you._

"I didn't ashk her to be."

A pause. _Are you okay?_

"Headache."

_You've been having far too many headaches lately. Perhaps you should take a break._

"I'm okay." Spike returned to his _kata_, but with a stronger, more distinct wobble. He stopped for a couple of moments, and then, clear as a bell, there was the other voice in his head again, the one that wasn't Ein's or his own. _Stop doing this. You're causing yourself harm. _

"Shtop it! Who . . . t'fk . . . are . . . _you_?" Spike took two wobbly steps. _Who the fuck is that, Ein? It's not you! There's . . . another fucking voice in my head! Make it **stop**!_

Ein, bewildered, moved closer to the human. _Spike, you're wobbling. And you're slurring your words._

_I've been slurring my words for a long time._

_No. This is worse._

_I'm **okay**, Ein. It's just that . . . other voice. It scares me. And the headache. It hurts. It has to stop, Ein, it has to stop._

_Is anything else happening? Numbness? Dizziness?_

After a few moments, Spike stopped moving. He was weaving on his feet. _Ein?_

_Spike?_

_I'm **not** okay._

_What is it?_

_Something . . . Can't . . . _and Spike collapsed into a heap on the floor. Ein ran to the man's side and pushed him with his nose.

_Spike? Spike!_

There was a very long pause. Spike's eyes flashed open._ Ein?_

_Spike, you have to tell me what's wrong! _

_Hurts._

_Your arm? Your chest?_

_Head. It hurts. It has to stop._

_Not a heart attack? Shit! Spike! Do what I say, now!_ Ein managed to pull on Spike's shirtsleeve until the man was in a prone position on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Ein jumped on the man's chest. _Smile for me, Spike, goddamnit, smile for me!_

Spike could only manage a twitch of one side of his mouth.

_Fuck, fuck, **FUCK**, Spike, it's a stroke, you're having a **STROKE**, can you hear me? Answer me!_

Nothing.

_Spike?_

Still nothing.

_**SPIKE!**_

A glimmer in the eye. The false eye. _You have to help him,_ the other voice said. _He's going like Ranger, and you have to help him._

_I can't help him; I couldn't help you or any of the others. This isn't a computer, it's a human! I can't help him!_

_Yes, you can. You're the only one out of all of us who would be able to. You have to! Do it **now**, Kid!_

Ein, shaken by the voice from his past, now confirmed that the voice was that of . . . Ein hunkered down on the man's chest and focused on Spike's eye, the one that quite didn't match. And _reached_ into it.

What Ein suddenly experienced was nothing like the cyberspace or even the limited insides of the computer systems he had accessed before. For one thing, the noise was constant, a near-unbearable whooshing and pounding that only the strongest of sub-woofers could create on the outside. And the heat was unlike anything that Ein had ever known. Also, all of the data he had processed, hacked, stolen, had a cold detachment to it that was the complete opposite of the emotion that he was now trying to process. Desire, pain, nostalgia, anger, love, fear, and joy spun into Ein's psyche.

Ein _pushed_ his way through in search of the cause of the stroke, attempting to further link himself to the chips implanted in Spike's cortex. It seemed that he was now a voyeur into the man's memories, and he saw fleeting images that he didn't understand. The kindly face of a woman looking down on him. A man, stern-faced. Dark, soot-filled streets lined with chain link fences. The smoke-filled rooms of a billiard hall. The images came at Ein faster and faster, leaving only a fleeting particle of what they contained. A rose. A glass fish on a windowsill. A running child. Raindrops. A man. A woman. Long, blond hair. A streetlight. A chair. A puddle. Death. Another man. Another woman. A child. A dog. All of these images were repeating, until Ein _pushed_ through once more and found his destination: the nano-chips themselves

The imbeds were supposed to run on a string pattern that would eventually loop itself, but the pattern would be minutely changed each time the loop revolved. What was happening was that the chips were stuck in a loop with a pattern that was repeating far too often, causing the synapses of Spike's brain to not complete. This started a cycle of deoxygenation, which in turn caused clotting to form around the nano-chips. Ein pushed the clots free and placed his full concentration on the nano-chips themselves, and Ein was hit with a barrage of Spike's words and thoughts:

_Whatever happens happens hunger is the best spice they say **BANG it hurts** just a dream bled all that kind of blood away **it hurts** I lost it in an accident watching a dream I could never wake up chose to be hunted **it hurts** women with attitude story was way too long I'd been longing for obnoxious little frog **it hurts** it has to **stop **. . . _

_Just like Ranger, _Ein thought wildly_, just like Ranger, he's going just like Ranger! It will stop, I promise, Spike, I'll make it stop._

He shut down the nano-chips, and re-booted them. The file still remained, dark, pulsing, corrupted, just like Ranger. Ein shut down the nano-chips again, re-booted them again, and this time, removed the file completely.

Ein suddenly had the sensation that he was being pulled backward. He also sensed his memory being pulled from him, and the images came as fleeting as the ones from Spike's memory: The Bebop, Jet, Faye, Ed, Spike, the briefcase, the lab, the other lab, another lab, the other experiment, the extra upgrades, the endless, endless experiments. The same emotions that Ein had perceived from Spike returned, blinding in their new-found clarity.

And finally, Fang. Ranger. Blood.

_Not Blood! I will **not **give up that memory! Take the rest. But not Blood!_

The cacophony of sound in Ein's mind reached a pinnacle.

Then, blessed silence.

And the sweet passage of time.

Spike's eyes opened wide and came into focus. He blinked, and blinked again. He looked left and right, trying to figure out where he was. He felt a very heavy weight on his chest, and he raised his head to see Ein draped across it.

"Ein?"

Ein's eyes stared off into the distance, and his tongue lolled from his mouth. Spike raised his arms to cradle Ein as he rolled over to his side, placing Ein on the floor beside him.

_Ein? Are you okay?_

Nothing.

_Ein?_

Still nothing. Spike lay there, staring into the dog's eyes, his mind whirling. He was unable to fully comprehend what had just happened. Had this dog somehow moved into his mind, replacing some of his own memories? Why did he know the entire history of this dog, this . . . _thing _that had come into his life?

What had been _done_ to this Corgi? And what had the Corgi done to _him_?

Spike saw a glimmer in one of the dog's eyes, which appeared to be looking at a memory from long ago. _A memory of rolling fields, and the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable. __And it wasn't **blood** that Ein kept seeing, but a dog **named** Blood._ Spike swallowed and spoke to the dog again. _Ein?_ The dog did not respond, and Spike tried once more. _Kid?_

_Blood? What happened? Are you okay?_

_I'm not Blood, Kid, it's Spike, remember?_

_Long ago. Oh, god . . ._

_I know, Kid. What happened to Blood?_

_I'm so sorry, Blood. So sorry . . ._

_It's going to be okay, Kid._

_Fang, Ranger. Both dead. My fault. And Blood. . . _

_It's going to be okay, Kid. Kid. Listen to me. The newspaper, Kid._

_The newspaper?_

_The one you saw in the village. Right before Ranger . . . The one that had the headline about the Mad Bio-Dogs – what was the date on the newspaper?_

_The date?_

_The date on the newspaper, Kid. When did all that **happen**?_

A pause._ July 10th, 1996._

**_1996?_**

_Tired. So tired, Blood. _Ein closed his eyes. Spike stared at Ein, frightened that the dog was dying in his arms, until he saw the dog's even breathing. Spike's mind was racing about the past of this dog -- this dog that had been alive since 1996, nearly 80 years -- the memories that he had just seen, and the full realization of what this dog was capable of doing.

Ein had saved his life.

For the second time.

The man and the dog remained on the floor for a long time. Later, when the other humans returned to the ship, empty-handed, they would find the man and the dog lying there, like a shipwrecked sailor clutching a life preserver.


	16. I Don't Feel No Pain No More

_I left this cruel world behind  
And I found my piece of mind  
**I don't feel no pain no more**  
Time and Tide is blowing over me  
I once was blind but now I see – Alan Price_

* * *

A dark corridor. 

"Faye?"

"Jet?"

"Split a smoke?"

Faye remained quiet for a moment. "Sure." A match flared into life, and the end of the cigarette lit like a burning coal. Jet took a drag and offered the cigarette. _A peace offering_, thought Faye. "Are we talking again?"

Even in the darkness, Faye could tell that Jet shrugged. "Yeah."

"Okay," replied Faye, but then they both went silent.

"Faye? Have you seen him lately?"

"Spike? Of course I have, Jet. Why?" Jet didn't answer. "Are you worried about him?"

"Ever since we got back from chasing that last bounty . . . He's different. Something must have happened. It seems crazy, but . . ." Jet took the cigarette back from her and took a deep drag.

"What?"

"Once, he told me that he was talking to the dog. That they communicated with their minds."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know." Jet looked away. "The doctors did put those computer chips in him, but they kept saying it was conducive to his rehabilitation."

"You're not actually being serious. You think that _Spike_ can communicate with a _dog_?"

"Ein isn't a normal dog. He supposedly has some alteration to his DNA."

"Do you have any idea how insane you sound, Jet?"

"Then you tell me why he hasn't left that dog's side since we came back to the ship. Why those two are always together. Have _you _worked with Spike on any sort of rehabilitation? At _all_?" Jet dragged on the cigarette, down to the filter. "You and I both know that Spike has about as much self-discipline as a spoiled child, yet he has spent hours every single day working to rebuild his strength. And the dog is almost always with him."

"You're talking crazy, Jet."

"What about in the hospital, after he met up with Sautsuma? When he drifted off and we thought he was stroking out again? And the day before that, he went into this trance while I'm talking to him. Well, not like a trance, it was like I interrupted a _conversation_ that Spike was having with someone in his head!. Please don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Faye was quiet. She _had_ noticed. And she, like Jet, had been baffled when Barleigh told them that while Spike continued to have stroke symptoms, that he was not physically having a stroke. Jet then questioned the nano-chips that had been imbedded in Spike's brain, and Barleigh had been non-committal

Jet continued. "Remember when you asked him to come out with us when you closed your debt? He looked at Ein like he was asking _permission_."

"Actually--" Faye and Jet both turned towards the third voice. A match flared in the darkness, briefly illuminating Spike's face as he lit three cigarettes. He handed one to Jet, one to Faye, and took a drag on his own. "I originally didn't want to go. Ein _made_ me, out of deference to Ms. Valentine. Calm down, Faye; I'm glad I ended up going along. Whispering about me in corridors, you two?"

Faye was still irritated. "What do you mean, Ein _made_ you go?"

Jet was flummoxed. "Spike. . ."

Faye made a scoffing noise. "Jet seems to think that you and Ein have some sort of relationship."

"Bestiality is still frowned upon as far as I know, Jet. And besides, Ein's not my type. Too short."

"That isn't what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Jet looked at his feet. "Nothing."

Spike narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure? Because standing in a dark corridor and whispering is unusual even for you."

"I agree," said Faye. "What are we all doing in here anyway? It's too hot." With a huff, she flounced off. Spike and Jet remained, quiet in the darkness, with only the lit ends of their cigarettes giving off light.

"Are you sure you're okay, Spike?"

Spike shrugged. "The headaches are gone."

"That's not quite what I meant."

"Do you want to hear a story?"

"You're not going to start talking about cats again, are you?"

"No. Once upon a time, there was a dog. And the dog had no idea what it meant to be a dog. It wasn't an animal, but it obviously wasn't a human, and it wasn't a computer. But this dog could move mountains, heal the sick, and rewrite history. However, no one noticed, because all they saw was a four-legged creature that resembled a dog. So it didn't make a bit of difference."

"And . . . ?"

Spike finished his cigarette. "There is nothing else."

Jet smirked. "I liked your cat story better. And you didn't answer my original question."

"Have I ever answered that question, Jet?" Before Jet could reply, Spike turned and went to his room. In the corner, Ein lay, silent, eyes closed, where he had been for several days. Spike sat beside him on the floor, and began scratching him behind the ear. He immediately got a vision of rolling hills from another time, on another planet.

_Did you miss me, dog?_

_How can I miss you when you don't go away?_

_You didn't eat again today._

_Didn't feel like eating._

_You should eat something, Ein._

_Like you said, it wouldn't make a bit of difference._

Spike stopped scratching Ein's ear._ You know, it's really creepy when you say things like that, Ein. It's like you're inside my head or looking through my eyes or something._

_Or something._

Spike sighed and looked away. _I really don't understand, Ein._

_It's probably better if you don't. But the truth is that you understand better than you know. Didn't you hear yourself, when you were talking to Jet just now? You know the meaning of the story._

_Ein . . ._

_I don't know how to be a dog. I never have. But you have to let me go. I have to be a dog. If only for a little while._

_But you **are** a dog, Ein._

_No. You **see** a dog. Perception is always stronger than reality, Spike. Blood understood that._

_What **happened** to Blood, Ein?_

_You know the answer to that question. And you know I'm right. It has to stop, Spike. **I **have to stop. You have to let me go._

Spike swallowed hard. His throat felt thick. He knew. And he understood, more than he wanted to. Spike moved so that he was lying on the floor, next to Ein, and he placed his forehead against Ein's. _Ein. Just please, tell me why the unspeakable are in full pursuit of the uneatable._

_It's an old Earth reference. In Act I of Oscar Wilde's A Woman of No Importance, Lord Illingworth remarks: 'The English country gentleman galloping after a fox—the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable'._

_What does that have to do with anything?_

_Everything, Spike, everything has to do with everything. And I need you to remember everything that needs to be remembered. Forget what you need to forget. Remember . . . remember how to howl at the moon._

And Ein went silent, but his sides remained moving with each labored breath.

_Ein?_

Nothing. Spike rubbed his hand through Ein's fur, hoping for a glimpse of the images that he had seen before, a rolling hill covered in wheat, the sounds of dogs howling, anything. But all Spike experienced was the touch of Ein's fur, matted, shaggy, and the feel of the creaky, elderly bones underneath.

_Ein?_

Still nothing.

And the man and the dog remained there on the floor for some time. And if tears were shed due to this loss, neither one of them were going to tell.

The sun rose, bringing with it warmth and the promise, the potential, of a new day.

And Kid had no idea of what to do.

He could hear low undertones of the "lowtalk" everywhere he looked, but all the creatures remained distant from him, distrusting him, seeing him as a threat. The night before, he had made his way to another farmyard. He had no idea how far he was going, or even which direction he was traveling.

_I could use a compass in my next upgrade_, Kid thought wryly. The farmyard did have cows, and he spent a spirited moment attempting to round them up in some long-standing instinctual habit he thought he might have. It turned out that the large creatures had more instinct for the notion of being rounded up than he had as a herder. And earlier, he thought he had seen a fox approach the chicken coop, which made him think of Ranger and all his unspeakable and uneatable talk.

_I don't know how to live out here. I'm too conspicuous, with my bleeding neck and shot-up rump._ The funny thing was that despite Kid's clumsiness and poor knowledge of how to move about on the outside, no one had noticed the Corgi in the past 36 hours. But he was tired. And hungry. And hurting. And he only knew how to alleviate those creature needs by association with humans. And he'd had enough of this outside business. The only reason he had stayed as hidden as he had was to ensure that Blood had gotten far enough away before he got captured himself. _That makes sense, that makes sense, _Kid kept telling his tired mind. Then he heard a familiar noise: human footsteps. Kid looked in the direction of the sound and saw a lanky human carrying a large sack to a barn. The sack seemed non-descript enough, and it was large enough for Kid to assume that the human was not carrying a gun as well. Kid rolled around in the dirt to make him appear even more pitiful, and whining, he trotted up to the human.

"What the hell?"

Kid stopped a short distance from the human and flopped down on the ground, whimpering.

"T-t-t-t. Come here, boy. Come here, puppy." The human put the sack down, hunkered down to a squat and began beckoning to Kid. "Come here. Are you hurt? Come here, boy."

Kid rolled to his feet and moved slowly to the human, who stayed where he was, hand out, reaching.

"It's okay, boy; I'm not going to hurt you. It looks like you've already had a peck of trouble. It's okay. Come here, boy."

Kid moved to within arms reach of the human, who gently touched his fur.

"You got pretty chewed up by something, looks like. Poor guy. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

The man lifted the dog off the ground, and walked into the farmhouse. The man began calling to someone else in the house. A woman appeared, and began exclaiming about the dog and what a terrible shape it was in. Both the humans worked to clean Kid up, and the woman bandaged his wounds with a loving touch that Kid had never known. Then they fed him leftover beef stew, warm and fragrant. Later, Kid was lying on a rug before a stove, warm, fed, happy. The woman was sitting beside him, stroking his fur, scratching his head, cooing to him in a tender voice. _Is this what it means to be a dog? How wonderful,_ thought Kid, as he dozed. _Ranger, Blood, you were so right. This is what being a dog should be. . . _

And then Kid found himself lifted by a pair of hands, hands that smelled so familiar and frightening. The lab. The coats. He was bundled into a cage before he knew what was happening. Dismayed, Kid looked up at the two humans who had cared for him, and then he saw paper that had numbers on it go from the coat's hand to the man's hand. It was money; he knew it was, even without ever seeing it before. He had seen enough of the outside through cyberspace to understand how it worked. The coats jostled the cage as they carried it out of the farmhouse, and Kid began barking with fury, at the coats, at the man and the woman, at whoever had ears at the moment. _No! This is not right! I don't want to go back to the box! _

The coats lifted the cage and set it in the back of a truck, tying it down with cords. Kid continued to bark and snarl. _Damn you, damn you humans! Put a fucking bullet in my head, but don't put me back in the box! It has to stop! It has to stop right now!_

_Hush, Kid._

_What?_

Kid fell silent, looking for the source of the voice. It was familiar, but strained and hoarse with pain and suffering. Kid's eyes fell on a bundle that was wrapped loosely in a piece of canvas. A nose poked out from the fabric. A dark nose surrounded by long, tawny-colored hair.

_Kid. It's going to be okay._

Kid looked at the canvas. The canvas was stained with blood that had seeped through. There was a pool of it under the bundle. _Blood? BLOOD! NO! Why didn't you get away?_

_I couldn't leave you, Kid. I stayed close to you._

_Oh god, Blood, it's all my fault. . ._

_No, it isn't. That was my choice._

_But Blood . . ._

_Remember, Kid. Remember that you're an unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable. Remember . . . remember how to howl at the moon. _

_What does that have to do with anything?_

_Everything, Kid, everything has to do with everything. And I need you to remember everything that needs to be remembered. Forget what you need to forget._

_Blood?_

Nothing.

_**BLOOD!**_

Still nothing.

The truck began moving. Kid threw himself repeatedly against the bars of his cage, howling at the moon that was still in the early morning sky.


	17. I'm Howlin’ At the Moon

_Winter turns to summer  
Sadness turns to fun  
Keep the faith, baby  
You broke the rules and won . . .  
. . . Keep it glowing, glowing, glowing  
I'm not hurting anyone  
Keep it glowing, smoking, glowing  
I'm **howlin' at the moon** – the Ramones_

* * *

Some time had passed on the Bebop, and much of the activity had returned to its relative normal. Spike worked through his _katas_ with a renewed vigor, Jet brooded over his bonsai, and Faye painted her toenails. The large bounty, the big one, continued to loom just out of reach. The three had been doing some work, enough to keep them going, but not enough to really go on, as was their usual fashion.

They suddenly had had contact with Ed. She missed them all, and she was still looking for Papa-Papa, even though she would rather be with Papa-Jet, Spi-person, and Faye-faye. She was tired of looking for Papa-Papa. Then she asked about Woof-woof.

Spike was the one who had to tell her. "Woof-woof . . . he's old and tired, Ed."

"Spi-person isn't telling Ed something."

"Spi-person doesn't think that Ein will be with us much longer."

"Ein's coming back to Ed?"

"No, Ed, I mean . . . I think he's going to die soon."

There was silence at the other end of the comm. link, and then Ed asked, quietly, "Can Spi-person put the comm-comm up to Woof-woof's ear?" Spike complied, and sat next to Ein and held the comm. for him. Spike didn't listen, but he caught some snatches of speech, and Ed sounded very upset. Hearing Ed's voice sound like that tugged at Spike as well. Ein listened, and barked or panted at times when it seemed that Ed required an answer. Then he pulled himself to his feet and went looking for his water bowl. Spike caught a glimpse of Ed's face before the comm. clicked off, and she looked devastated, about as devastated as Spike had felt when Ein shut off their communication.

Jet had made the suggestion that Ein should perhaps be put down, put out of his misery. Spike vehemently refused. Ein was not in pain, just tired and old, he maintained. Jet apologized and dropped the discussion, and then went into the kitchen to make some fresh-cooked beef for Ein, but Ein didn't eat. Jet didn't press him, but he did spend some time scratching the dog's ears.

One afternoon, Spike had been sitting with Ein on the lumpy old sofa. Faye had leaned over the back on the sofa and scratched Ein's head as she told stories about an old dog that had belonged to her family when she was a very young girl. Then, quietly, she squeezed Spike's shoulder and left the room.

Spike was due for another checkup with Barleigh, and Spike put a leash on Ein and took the dog with him. Barleigh took one look at the dog and asked Spike to put him on the exam table.

Spike smiled wanly. "What is this? Are you really a vet in disguise?"

"I just want to look." Barleigh did all of the usual checks: he shone a light into Ein's ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, took a pulse, and even Ein's temperature. Ein stood quietly as Barleigh palpitated his belly, and then Ein lay down with a flop. "Just how old is this dog?"

"In dog years or human years?"

Barleigh chuckled in response, and then took another look in the dog's ear. And there, in a faded blue, was an aged tattoo: HANSO19960501 - 417. Barleigh recognized it; it was a lab tattoo, and in his experience with lab animals, he knew that the series of numbers reflected the date of the dog's registration at a laboratory and a serial number, but Barleigh couldn't believe the date code. He took another look at the tattoo, which read very clearly that this dog had been tagged on May 1, 1996. Barleigh frowned and then looked at Spike. "You have a very old dog here."

Spike blinked. "Yes, I do."

And the two men looked at each other, knowing that each knew exactly what this dog was about, where he came from, and just how old the animal was.

"Mr. Spiegel, tell me . . . just how did you come by this dog?"

Spike looked at Barleigh for a moment, trying to think of an explanation, but then decided that the truth, or a version of the truth, was the right thing to say. "He . . . fell from the sky."

Barleigh returned Spike's gaze for a while, and said, "I could give you some tranquilizers; some mild ones for his pain."

Spike shook his head. "I don't think he's in pain anymore."

"I think . . . I think you're right." Barleigh stood for a moment, stroking Ein's fur. "Goodbye, Mr. Spiegel."

"But – this is my checkup. You didn't examine me."

Barleigh, apparently finished with his warm manner towards Ein, puffed himself up and said, "We both know that you are a very stubborn man, Mr. Spiegel, prone to ignore both my advice and the advice of others in favor of your own opinion. However, I expect I will see you in the future, given your propensity for injuring yourself as you do. For now, I bid you adieu." Barleigh stumped to the door. "And . . . adieu to you, little Corgi. May you chase the uneatable with the other unspeakable across the moors."

"Oscar Wilde."

Barleigh looked back at Spike in surprise. "Yes, indeed." And with that, he left the room.

After leaving the hospital, Spike took Ein to a dog park that was near the university. He removed the leash from Ein and watched as he gamboled over the grass with several other dogs. Ein got briefly involved with a game of catch with a non-descript spotted dog that was not much bigger than Ein. Spike heard the owners, a couple in their mid-thirties, call the spotted dog Gypsy. Gypsy and Ein were having quite a time, as if they had met before. And perhaps they had, long ago.

_Ein? Can you hear me?_ _Are you having fun?_ Ein didn't answer; he hadn't answered before when Spike attempted to speak to him. But Ein did look at Spike, panting, with a grin on his face, looking happier than Spike ever remembered. Spike swallowed, and smiled back. _I should have brought you here earlier, Ein, please forgive me. _Ein slowly waddled over to Spike, who was sitting on the grass, and head-butted Spike in the chest. Spike laughed, and gave Ein a really good scratch, talking in the baby-talk that most dogs hear from their owners. Ein responded to Spike's talking with a howl, despite the moonless sky, which set off a chain reaction with the other dogs in the park. Spike laughed even harder, and returned the howls with one of his own.

But today, Ein was by himself in the common area, near the old sofa, on the floor where Ed and her Tomato used to be. As before, as always, as it probably ever shall be, Spike was working on his _katas_, Jet was brooding over his bonsai, and Faye was painting her toenails. _Status Quo. Except for Ed. We need to go get Ed. Then the scene will be complete._ Ein yawned. He was so tired. He put his nose on his paws and closed his eyes.

_Hey. Kid. Wake up._ Clear as a bell, the other, familiar voice from his past. Ein wasn't surprised to hear it, but it seemed that the voice was speaking to him from the same room this time.

_What?_

_Wake up, Kid. Open your eyes._

Ein raised his head. Before him stood Blood. But not really. _What are you doing here?_

_You know why I'm here._

_Yes. . . I do. _Ein turned his head in Spike's direction. He couldn't see the human from where he was.

_Don't worry about them Kid, they're going to be okay. You did good, Kid._

_No. I didn't. I never learned . . ._

_Yes, you did. You learned well. And you remembered what you needed to remember. C'mon, they're waiting._

_They?_

_Ranger and Fang, asshole. Who else? _Blood grinned and came closer, and put his forehead against Ein's. _Hey, Kid. You know what? That whole thing about the uneatable being uneatable? It's a total lie. The uneatable are very good eating indeed. Let's go._

Ein grinned back. He took one last gaze around the ship. _The kids are all right, _he thought, and then he put his nose back down on his paws and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another. Then he breathed no more.

And two dogs ran across the meadow, howling at the moon.


	18. Epilogue: Angels Coming After Me

_I looked over Jordan, and what did I see?  
Coming for to carry me home,  
**A band of angels coming after me**,  
Coming for to carry me home – traditional _

* * *

Spike had been dreaming again of the scantily-clad, Esperanto-speaking nymphettes of which he was most fond of dreaming, but then that image began to fade away, to give way to rolling fields of wheat, which then gave way to a copse of trees near a dilapidated building that Spike didn't recognize, and then a new voice began lilting on the dream-ether, a female voice, but not speaking in Esperanto – this was a young voice, high-pitched and silly, but singing a song of sadness, an unfamiliar tone to the familiar voice.

Spike's eyes fluttered open, and he took a deep breath. He knew what had to be done now. He just needed to remember.

It was surprisingly easy to find both Ed and the old laboratory where Ein had begun his bizarre and lengthy journey. When the Bebop landed to collect Ed, she was standing on the top of a mountain, a mountain that looked to Spike like the back of a sleeping camel. The ship obviously couldn't land on top the mountain, so they had to land nearby in a large man-made lake several miles away. Spike had intended to go out on Swordfish to collect the girl, but she surprised them by running the entire journey back to the ship.

Ed flew into Spike's arms the moment she saw him, and held him tight. Then she wanted to see Ein, to say goodbye. Jet had made a box for him, and he was currently in the room with all of Jet's bonsais. She stayed next to Ein's side as they went to the other location.

The Bebop crew made an odd procession. Faye was wearing a good-looking black suit, and a small hat with a net veil over her face. If she had been wearing it for any other reason, Spike would have probably given her merry hell about her widow's weeds, but this was not the time for that kind of teasing. Faye held Ed's hand, and it seemed that Ed was growing out of her tee shirts and black shorts. Her feet were bare, as always. Both women (yes, Spike surmised that Ed was at least well on her way to earning that distinction, death had a funny way of doing that to a person) carried wildflowers. Jet and Spike carried the box on their shoulders, solemn as any other pallbearers, wearing their best suits, the ones they had worn the night they had gone dancing.

They had found the intended spot the day before, and Jet had found a shovel somewhere in the deep recesses of the Bebop, which had amused Spike. The old man could always find something completely unexpected on that old trawler. The two men had dug the grave together, and Faye and Ed had gone in search of small stones to create a cairn.

Today, the four reached the spot in solemn silence, and Jet and Spike carefully laid the small box in the grave. Spike looked through the trees at the ruins of the old laboratory, and shuddered at the thought of the evils that had been endured there, not just by Ein, but also Ranger and Fang, and Blood, as well as countless others who were only known by a number instead of a name. He'd struggled with the idea of putting Ein here, in the shadows of that place of torture, but he also felt that perhaps, just perhaps, Ein's spirit would be more at rest near the spirits of his brothers.

Ed had just laid her flowers in the small grave, and then tugged on Spike's hand. Spike snapped out of his reverie and looked down at her tear-filled eyes. He found the old battered prayerbook in his inside pocket, the one embossed with his father's name, barely legible after all these years, and found the short prayer that he had found early this morning when he couldn't sleep. Spike said the short prayer, and the four remained in silence for a short while. Ed stood between Jet and Spike, holding their hands. For a moment, Faye stood slightly off to one side, as if she wasn't sure where to stand, until Jet caught her eye briefly, and she went to his side, and they found each other's hand.

Then, the silence was broken by the soft lilt of Ed, who apparently had a much prettier singing voice than any of them had ever imagined. However, it took the three adults a moment to realize what it exactly was that she was saying: "Bringing in the cheese . . . bringing in the cheese . . . we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the cheese."

Faye and Jet bit back smiles, but Spike grinned widely and began singing the song along with Ed, not bothering to correct the missung lyrics:

_Bringing in the cheese, bringing in the cheese,  
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the cheese;  
Bringing in the cheese, bringing in the cheese,  
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the cheese._

_Going forth with weeping, sowing for the Master,  
Though the loss sustained our spirit often grieves;  
When our weeping's over, He will bid us welcome,  
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the cheese. _

Out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw a flash of a red, bushy tail. A fox. An uneatable. And as it dashed out of the copse of trees, Spike felt fairly sure that an unspeakable, somewhere, would chase that uneatable, probably while howling at the moon.


End file.
